The Dance Of The Dragons
by QuentynTargaryen
Summary: A story of the Targaryen dynasty, set during the civil war the histories of Westeros have dubbed "the dance of the dragons," when Targaryen fought Targaryen and the realm was choked in fire and blood.
1. Chapter 1

Quentyn Targaryen sat upon a throne of black iron. The arms of the throne were shaped to resemble dragon paws, and two great wings of iron fanned from the back of the seat. Behind the throne hung the standard of House Targaryen: a three-headed dragon, red upon a black backdrop. So too was Quentyn's garb; he dressed in sable leather leggings and long-sleeved jerkin, with black gloves upon his hands and tall black boots upon his feet. His cloak was black on the outside, scarlet on the inside, and clasped at the throat with the Targaryen sigil done in red gold. His silver hair fell to his shoulders, framing his face. His eyes were a deep purple, flecked with scarlet. Though he was but one-and-twenty, he was powerfully built, and his face was the stern face of a man twice his years.

Outside, a storm raged, wind and rain lashing against the walls of Dragonstone. Though Dragonstone was generally ruled by whichever Targaryen was next in line to sit the Iron Throne, Quentyn's brother Aegon had given the seat to Quentyn, electing instead to stay at King's Landing. There were whispers that, though Aegon was King Viserys's son and the lawful heir, King Viserys was still intent on being succeeded by his daughter and Aegon's elder sister, Princess Rhaenyra; Aegon wanted to stay close to their father, in case these whispers were true.

Quentyn had not believed the whispers, but he took Dragonstone nonetheless. The seat suited him; it was made of black stone, a dreary, cold island in the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Quentyn liked the isolation, away from the politics of court, and he liked flying over the often stormy sea on the back of his dragon, Darkfyre. Though he gladly took his leave of his father and sibilings, he had not believed the whispers...until today.

The wind picked up, showering the coastline and walls of Dragonstone with waves; the booming of the Stone Drum could be heard even through the thick walls of the Great Hall. Quentyn ignored the sound; he had eyes only for the two men standing in the center of the hall. They wore crimson tunics, with lions stitched on the breast in golden thread. _Lannisters_, Quentyn thought bitterly. _Lions, they call themselves. Cravens, I think._

"Tell me again; I must have misheard you," he said, eyes burning with rage. Though his voice was quiet, the two emissaries quailed, stepping back a pace. His reputation as a dangerous man was known across the Seven Kingdoms.

The taller man answered him, his voice shaking. "M-my prince, your father, His Grace, bids you attend him at King's Landing. He means to publicly declare your sister, Princess Rhaenyra, as his lawful heir, and wishes you there to bear witness."

"My brother Aegon is the lawful heir." Quentyn stood, his cloak billowing around his shoulders. "Leave me, now. Return to your ship."

The Lannister men exchanged looks, shivering. "My prince, the storm-"

Quentyn waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, the storm. I had forgotten Lannisport sailors could not hold their own in the dragon's sea." He favored them with one more glare, his eyes hooded, and shouted for a guardsman. "Show these men to a room in Sea Dragon Tower. Have two serving girls attend them; see they are fed and brought wine, and have furs to sleep under until this storm passes." Though Quentyn had naught but scorn for the Lannisters, they were loyal subjects to the Targaryen rule, and had been ever since the last King of the Rock had bent his knee to Aegon the Conqueror. He was many things, but a poor host was not amongst them. "It will be done, my prince," the guardsman replied. The Lannisters, however, did not move.

"My prince...His Grace requests you send word by raven of the manner of your arrival," the shorter of the two men said, cringing slightly from the bright glare of the prince's eyes.

Quentyn let out a bark of laughter, causing the emissaries to jump slightly. "Why, I will arrive on dragonback, as befits the Prince of Dragonstone. A raven will be useless; Darkfyre could make the trip thrice before the bird had flown halfway." With that, he strode from the room, out a small door behind his throne. The door led to a hallway, winding along the tail of the dragon the Great Hall had been fashioned after. Much of Dragonstone's construction resembled dragons; small dragons framed gates and dragon claws held torches, a pair of great wings covered the armory and smithy, and tails formed archways and staircases. Sea Dragon Tower, Windwyrm, and the kitchens were all built to resemble dragons.

Another door at the tip of the tail led to a small courtyard in front of Windwyrm, Dragonstone's largest tower, over two hundred feet tall. It was shaped as a dragon screaming defiance, its snout pointed towards the heavens. It was there Quentyn kept his quarters, in the highest room in the head of the dragon. Between the dragon's colossal wings, Quentyn had ordered a great cavern constructed upon his arrival; it was there that Darkfyre took shelter and was fed.

Rain lashed the courtyard, and the wind howled through the gargoyles that crowned the walls in place of the traditional square merlons. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, Quentyn walked around the base of the tower to the cavern. Darkfyre was beneath the colossal roof, chewing on the bones of the oxen he had been fed. Darkfyre was massive; his head was easily as big as one of the elephants of Slaver's Bay, his wings too wide to fully spread within the confines of his cave. His scales were as black as a moonless midnight, his eyes the scarlet of the deepest flame.

"Darkfyre," Quentyn called across the cavern. The dragon turned his head and spotted his master. Rising, the dragon crawled across the cavern, using the tips of his wings and his hind legs to shuffle along. Though the motion seemed awkward, the dragon was deceptively fast, and quickly reached Quentyn. The prince patted his dragon's neck and rubbed the scales behind the ivory horns sprouting from the base of his skull. Many of the Targaryen dragons were half-wild, but not Darkfyre; since he had been given to Quentyn as a hatchling, the prince had taken great care to train him well. Darkfyre was as tame as a dog under Quentyn's hand, though he was more vicious than any dragon in a fight and was nigh unapproachable by any man who wasn't a Targaryen or one of Quentyn's sworn swords. Quentyn had trained him well, indeed.

The prince still seethed over the news the Lannister men had brought him. _My father wishes me to witness his folly? Then witness it I shall, and he shall know _precisely_ how I feel about it._ Though Quentyn was third in line for the throne, his father still heeded his council, at times even above his own Hand and Quentyn's grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower.

Quentyn climbed up Darkfyre's leg and settled himself into the hollow at the base of his neck. Touching his heels to Darkfyre's scales, he shouted, "Darkfyre! To King's Landing!"

With a shake of his head, the dragon shuffled to the mouth of the cavern and launched himself into the stormy sky. With three beats of his wings, Darkfyre cleared the wall around Dragonstone and flew out over the spray, angling east across the bay, towards the capital city of Westeros.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn was breaking over Blackwater Bay as Darkfyre cleared the storm, leaving the rumbling thunderheads behind him. Quentyn shook rainwater from his hair and cloak as the dragon swept over the water towards the rising sun. King's Landing was outlined against it, the red stone of the city drinking in the morning light. Quentyn had to admit it was a beautiful sight.

Quentyn had sailed to Dragonstone when he was four-and-ten, with Darkfyre just a hatchling. It had been seven years since he had set sight on the capital. _It hasn't changed,_ he thought to himself as Darkfyre cleared the walls and angled towards the Red Keep. The people below looked smaller than termites from dragonback. They paid him no heed; dragons were common sights in the city of the Targaryens. Dragonpit housed the four dragons of his sibilings, and his brothers were fond of riding.

Darkfyre roared as he began his descent into the Red Keep. The Keep sat atop Aegon's High Hill, overlooking the city. Quentyn looked out over the hundreds of buildings, already missing the bleak shores of Dragonstone. _I will make my business here short_, he thought to himself. _I want no part of father's politics._

The guards atop the walls of the Red Keep were shouting to each other, pointing up at Darkfyre; one blew a long blast on a horn, and a troop of the City Watch hurried into the courtyard, their gold cloaks blazing in the sun. Quentyn smiled a tight-lipped smile; it appeared they did not recognize his dragon. It was not unheard of for dragons to go rogue and attack cities; strange dragons were never a welcome sight, especially in the capital. The City Watch soldiers were scrambling to wind crossbows, shouting frantically all the while.

Darkfyre circled in tight spirals, descending, and landed heavily on the cobbled ground of the Keep. Quentyn vaulted from his back, landing lightly on his feet, and strode towards the guards. "City Watch! Do you not recognize your prince?" he called. Immediately the men dropped their arms and fell to their knees. Quentyn walked to them, and lay his hand upon one of their shoulders. "Rise, men. You did well to assemble quickly, though if I had been an attacker, Darkfyre would have cooked you in your armor before a bolt was loosed."

"Pray forgive us, my prince," the man said as the guards rose to their feet. "It has been so long since you graced us with your presence, we did not know you. Your dragon, as well. He's grown...large."

_An understatement. Darkfyre is the largest dragon alive, though not so large as Balerion was, not yet, _Quentyn thought to himself. "All is well, soldier. Return to your post; I have business with the king."

The soldiers bowed low before dispersing back to their posts along the wall of the Keep. Quentyn turned to Darkfyre, saying, "Go, hunt." The black dragon snorted and launched himself into the air, wheeling up into the azure sky before angling towards the harbor. Quentyn watched him go, shielding his eyes. The sun had cleared the walls, and already the day was growing hot. The cobbles beneath his boots were warm; he could feel the heat rising off the stone.

The prince turned and strode towards the doors of the Great Hall. The large double doors were made of oak, and banded with bronze. Before the doors stood two men in the white armor and flowing white cloaks of his father's Kingsguard; Quentyn recognized Sers Arryk and Erryk Cargyll, the twins. He hailed them as he approached, and both dropped to their knees. "Rise, sers!" Quentyn said as he reached them. They rose, and he clasped each one in turn by the forearm, smiling. "It is good to see you again, Prince Quentyn," Ser Arryk said with a smile of his own. "You as well, Ser Arryk. How fares my lord father?"

"His Grace is as well as ever," Ser Erryk answered.

"And my sibilings?"

"They as well, though since the whispers of His Grace's...announcement, Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond have been avoiding both His Grace and Princess Rhaenyra. They keep to their own company in Maegor's Holdfast, and leave only to fly their dragons."

Quentyn was not surprised. "I have business with my lord father."

"Of course," Ser Erryk said. He and his brother stepped aside, and Quentyn pushed open the doors of the Great Hall.

The hall was large, bigger by half then his own hall at Dragonstone. The skulls of dragons long dead glared down from along the walls, beneath the narrow windows. They were massive, the remnants of the old dragons of Valyria, before the Doom. A blood red carpet bisected the room down the center, leading to the raised dais upon which sat the Iron Throne of Westeros. The Throne itself was impressive; it was made entirely of swords, melted and twisted together to create an immense barbed seat. The swords had once belonged to the lords and kings of the Seven Kingdoms, before Aegon the Conqueror and his two sisters had crossed the sea on dragonback to take Westeros for themselves, and taken their swords for the throne.

King Viserys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne. Viserys was a plump man; the peace created by his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, had flourished under his rule, and it showed. Jaehaerys's crown, a golden circlet set with jewels of many hues, rested on his father's brow. King Viserys sported a silver mustache upon his lip, and was fond of stroking it as he spoke. He wore robes of deep purple trimmed with cloth-of-gold. Before the dais stood the rest of Viserys's Kingsguard: Ser Rickard Thorne, Ser Willis Fell, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Lorent Marbrand, and their Lord Commander, Ser Criston Cole. All were dressed in snow-white armor; all were draped in the signature white cloak of the Kingsguard. All had their hands on the hilts of their swords.

"Quentyn! My son! Welcome home. I was not expecting you to arrive the morrow after I sent for you, I confess," his father called to him as Quentyn made his way down the hall. "Ser Criston, as you can see, it is only my son, no threat to me. You and your Kingsguard may stand down."

The five knights relaxed, dropping their hands from their hilts. "Forgive me, my prince," Ser Criston said. "We did not know it was you flying into the city." _Have I truly been gone that long?_ Quentyn thought to himself. "It is no matter, Ser Criston. It is your duty to protect my father."

The Lord Commander nodded, and waved his hand. The five knights tuned and took up positions around the Iron Throne; two to the back on either side, and Ser Criston himself at Viserys's left hand.

Quentyn reached the base of the dais and knelt, lowering his head. "Your Grace," he said, directing his words to the floor.

His father laughed, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls of the Great Hall. "Rise, rise! You need not greet me as if you were some common lord," he chortled. Quentyn rose and stepped back a pace. He was not smiling.

"Your Lannisters brought me disturbing news," Quentyn said, his voice low. He did not fail to notice the corners of Ser Criston's mouth turn down slightly.

"Disturbing? Why, it is no news at all. You have always known of my intent to put your sister upon the Iron Throne when I die."

"I knew that was your plan before you fathered three trueborn sons," Quentyn replied. "Sons take precedence over daughters. That is the law of succession."

"Bah! You sound just like Ser Criston. I am King of Westeros; the law is what I make of it." His father frowned, looking down at Quentyn. "You look like a man of thirty, not a man of one-and-twenty. Dragonstone is no fit place for a prince. It has turned you into a hard man."

"Dragonstone suits me far better than the politics of King's Landing. And you have always known me to be a hard man. What you intend to do is folly. Rhaenyra is not fit to rule. She is headstrong, petulant, and holds a grudge for even the smallest slight. Aegon is the rightful heir, not Rhaenyra, and he will rule far better."

Viserys frowned again, stroking his bushy mustache. "I have trained Rhaenyra to rule since she was a small child. She holds a seat on my small council. She has been at court her whole life, while you fled to Dragonstone when you were but four-and-ten, not even a man grown. What do you know of ruling?"

Quentyn returned his father's frown. "You are right. I know nothing of ruling a kingdom. But you would needs be blind to not see the truth of my words. Aegon must succeed you."

"Enough. I have heard enough." Viserys leaned forward on the Iron Throne, looking down at Quentyn. "I trust your council, Quentyn, I always have. Many a time have I sent ravens to you on Dragonstone seeking advice. But in this, my mind is made up. There will be a tourney here at King's Landing in three days; all the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms shall attend, excepting Dorne. There I will announce my intentions, which will be written in my will. I will put my seal on it, and that will be the end."

Quentyn lowered his head. "This is folly," he said again.

"Then think me a fool. I care not."

"If that is your final word, may I have your leave to return to Dragonstone? I wish no part of this."

"No."

Quentyn raised his eyes to his father. The usually jolly king's face was hard. "You will attend this tourney and bring honor to House Targaryen. None in the Seven Kingdoms can match you with a sword. You will then offer that Valyrian blade of yours in fealty to your sister, and swear to support her rule. After you have done so, then you and that monster dragon of yours can return to your rock."

Quentyn's left hand rose to rest on the hilt of Shadowrend, the Valyrian steel sword he had been given on the day he took Dragonstone for his seat. The sword was a statement of simplistic deadliness, much like Quentyn himself; it had no ornament, no gold, no silver fastenings. The crossguard was a bar of patterned Valyrian steel, with the tips of the bar angling up at 90 degree angles to run parallel with the blade. The pommel was an unadorned ball, the handle wrapped in black wire. The blade itself was long and narrow, black as Darkfyre, with silver ripples showing the Valyrian pattern of the steel. Its sheath was wood, covered in black leather. "And if I refuse? If I do not swear fealty?"

"You will _not_ refuse." Quentyn had never heard such rage in his father's voice. "You call me fool, and yet here you stand defying your father and your king. You oppose yourself to your own family, and for what? The law? You, who took a seat as far from the Iron Throne and its laws as you could get? You, who has ten thousand men housed in Dragonstone, sworn to you and no other, to distance yourself from the rest of the realm? You are a Targaryen, Quentyn, and you shall not dishonor your House. You _will_ swear fealty to your sister, or you will be branded a traitor."

Quentyn stood stiff, shocked. _A traitor? Has my father taken leave of his senses?_ "There is no man in Westeros as leal a servant as I, father. You know this. My loyalty to the realm and to House Targaryen is why I oppose this. It will bring naught but ruin, the end of the peace you have worked so hard to maintain. Can you not see this?"

"Enough, I said. I have spoken; it is done." Viserys leaned back upon the Iron Throne, looking at his son. "Quentyn," he said, his voice softer, "Your sister needs your sword. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who can match you in single combat, no force stronger than your Black Dragons, and few men wiser in the ways of the world. Do not oppose her. Help her, counsel her as you have counseled me."

_Rhaenerys will never accept my counsel_, Quentyn thought, but he held his tongue. Instead, he knelt again. "As you command, Your Grace."

Viserys smiled. "There," he said, stroking his mustache again. "You will not regret this, you shall see. Rhaenerys will make a fine queen. Perhaps I shall have you wed her."

Quentyn shook his head. "No. I have no interest in being king. I have no interest in Rhaenerys, either."

"Bah. Have it your way, then. Remain on Dragonstone. But you will be wed, you will bear sons, and you will continue the Targaryen line."

Quentyn was tired of arguing. "As you say, Your Grace."

"You only ever call me that when you are angry. Headstrong, you call Rhaenerys, but you are as touchy as wildfire, my son. We shall find a match for you before you return to Dragonstone. Your little sister Daenerys, perhaps."

_I will not wed of my own blood,_ Quentyn thought to himself. Though the Targaryens had wed brother to sister and cousin to cousin for decades, to keep the blood of the dragon pure, Quentyn had no taste for the practice. He was born of his father and Queen Alicent Hightower, after all; his blood, and the blood of his two brothers and his little sister, was not entirely dragon already. But he bowed his head and answered, "Perhaps."

Viserys sighed. "For all your greatness, you can be most tiresome at times." The king waved his hand. "Go find yourself a room in Maegor's Holdfast. You shall remain in King's Landing until the tournament is ended."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And see to it Darkfyre is housed in the Dragonpit with the others."

Quentyn frowned at that. "Darkfyre is not used to confinement, and is wild with any other than myself or my sworn swords. Please, allow him to roost where he wishes. He will not trouble the locals, I promise you."

"So be it, but if that dragon of yours does any damage, it will be on your head." Viserys rose from the throne. "Now, leave me. I am in need of some wine, to cure the headache you have given me."

Quentyn bowed low, and tuned to leave the hall. Before he had gone five paces, however, his father called his name. Quentyn turned to face the Iron Throne.

"My son. It truly is good to see your face again," Viserys said. Quentyn relented, and smiled at his father. "It is good to see yours as well, father."

King Viserys returned the smile. "Now, let us argue no more. Go, find your rooms, and tonight we shall feast to celebrate your return." Quentyn nodded once, and strode down the hall and out the great oaken doors into the courtyard.

The prince headed across the courtyard to the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast. He spat onto the spikes at the bottom of the moat, as he used to do as a boy. He found himself missing the days when he and his two brothers had played and trained in the Keep, before he had left for Dragonstone. _Those days are past,_ he thought bitterly. _Dragonstone is my home now, and all the better. I did not miss playing this game of thrones._

Maegor's Holdfast was a towering square castle at the center of the Red Keep. It had walls of its own, a castle within a castle. He entered through a side door, not wishing to be seen, and climbed a flight of stairs to the royal apartments. He found his old room and entered it. It was as he remembered; a large feather bed with hangings sat against one wall, a writing desk against the other. A Myrish rug covered the floor, and unlit torches stood in brackets along the wall. An empty hearth was set into the wall, near the bed, to provide warmth on cold nights. The door faced a large glass window looking out over the city and the harbor.

Quentyn could see Darkfyre in the bay, diving beneath the water. When he surfaced, the dragon had something in his jaws; the dragon tossed his catch in the air and bathed it in a stream of black fire, charring the flesh before it could begin its descent, and snapped it out of the air. The sight brought a smile to Quentyn's lips. The storm they had flown through from Dragonstone was still raging as well, and headed for the city. _It will be a dark night,_ Quentyn thought.

He hung his sword belt and cloak on pegs next to the door and collapsed onto the mattress. The long flight and sleepless night caught up with him, and he fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of rain beating against the glass window finally woke the prince. Someone had been in his room; the torches were lit, there was a fire burning merrily in the hearth, and a flagon of wine and a goblet had been set out on the writing desk, next to a platter of cheese and a heel of bread. A tunic of soft black velvet, emblazoned with the Targaryen dragon, and a pair of velvet leggings lay at the foot of the bed, along with soft cloth boots and a blood red cloak.

Quentyn ignored the clothes; he preferred his plain black leather to the finery of court. He walked to the desk and poured wine into the goblet. It was a gold wine from the Arbor, an excellent vintage. Quentyn drank like a man dying; he was parched from the journey. The cool wine soothed his throat and caused warmth to blossom in his stomach, reminding him he had not eaten since the day before. He tore a chunk off the bread with his teeth, and was chewing ravenously, when a knock came at the door.

"Enter," Quentyn called, swallowing the bread and taking another gulp of wine.

The door to his chamber flew open, and two men rushed through. Before he knew what was happening, they had lifted him and slammed him to his back on the bed. The men grappled with him, pinning his arms and legs, immobilizing him.

Quentyn drew breath to shout for guards, but then he noticed the silver hair, the purple eyes, and the grinning faces. "So, here lies the great Prince Quentyn Wildfire of House Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, High Commander of the Black Dragons, and third in line for the Iron Throne," Prince Aemond Targaryen said, laughing. "Looks as though we'll be due a handsome reward for this fine captive," Prince Aegon Targaryen replied, grinning down at his brother. "Aegon! Aemond! Get off me, you baseborn churls!" Quentyn shouted, laughing with them.

His brothers stood and helped him to his feet. Aegon was the shortest of the three brothers, though he was two years Quentyn's elder. He was portly, like their father, though his mustache was wispy and thin where Viserys's was bushy and thick. Aemond looked like Quentyn; he had the same shoulder length silver hair, the same tall, lean build, and the same stern features, though Aemond was wont to smile more often than his younger brother. Both were dressed in black silk tunics bordered in red velvet, with black hose on their legs and cloth boots on their feet.

"We heard word you had returned to King's Landing after all these long years," Aegon said, still smiling. "We thought you'd planted roots on Dragonstone, or frozen to that black throne of yours. What brings you back to the capital?"

"Father sent for me," Quentyn replied, his smile fading. At the mention of their father, Aemon's smile disappeared immediately, to be replaced with his customary sullen look. _For a moment, it felt as though we were young boys again, _Quentyn thought. _Foolish._

"Father," Aegon spat. Aegon had always been a brooding child; it appeared he had grown into a brooding man. Quentyn had never been close with Aegon during their youth. He and Aemond shared the most in common, and had been fast friends, but Quentyn was not sure if that would remain true now, seven years later. _Politics, it's all politics in this thrice-damned city. The Others take their throne; I want no part in this._

"Father will do as he wishes," Quentyn replied. "He is the king; it is his _right _to do what he wishes."

"It is _my_ right as firstborn son to rule when he is dead and his body is given to the flames," Aegon replied. "Rhaenyra is not fit to rule, you know this as well as I."

"No, she is not. I agree with you, but father is adamant about this. I have spoken with him already, and he is not to be swayed."

Aegon scowled. "The old fool. All he knows is feasting and wine and _peace_. He did not even earn his comfortable reign, he inherited it. If Rhaenyra inherits it as well, she will destroy it. The first lord to slight her in any way will lose his head, and we'll have revolution on our hands."

"Aegon is right, Quentyn," Aemond said sadly, looking Quentyn in the eye. "We have to convince father that this is folly. He trusts you above all others. Would you not try again?"

"I _have_ tried. I stood before the Iron Throne and gave the man every reason to reconsider, and he told me if I did not swear my fealty to Rhaenyra at this tourney of his, he would brand me a traitor."

Silence greeted his words. Aegon looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Aemond's gaze dropped to the floor. "I had not known he was this determined," Aemond whispered. He reaised his head, however, and Quentyn saw resolve in his eyes. "We must go together. Now. He is meeting with his small council in his solar; if we bring the matter before them, perhaps our voices together could sway him. I know Lord Hightower and Ser Criston agree with us, and father heeds their counsel as highly as he does yours, Quentyn."

"Yes. We must go now, before the meeting ajourns," Aegon said. He was already halfway out the door.

"Aegon, stop."

Aegon froze in the doorway, casting a sour look at Quentyn. "We must make haste!"

"Have you forgotten that Rhaenyra sits on the small council?"

That stopped them short. Aegon muttered to himself, still scowling, but Aemond answered after a moment. "It does not matter, brother. We must do this, if we are to have any hope of swaying father."

"You wish to stand before Rhaenyra, in front of witnesses, and declare her unfit to rule? What happens if father is not swayed, and Rhaenyra is crowned? She does not forget slights, and this is much more than a whispered insult or a cruel jape. This could be seen as treason, as attempting to usurp what she sees as her rightful crown. How do you imagine she will repay that, should she sit the Iron Throne? What do you think Queen Rhaenyra would do with her traitor brothers?"

"It makes no matter. We go, with or without you," Aegon said, walking out the door. Aemond hung back. "Is that Arbor wine on your table?" he asked. Quentyn nodded, and Aemond poured a goblet, draining it in three long swallows. He poured another and handed it to Quentyn. The prince drank deep, the wine dulling the throb in his temple Aegon had left him with.

"He is too bold with his claim," Quentyn said to Aemond. "Too bold, I agree, but his claim is the legitimate one," Aemond replied. He grasped Quentyn by the forearm, pulling him into an embrace. "It is good to have you back in King's Landing, brother. I have missed you sorely," he said. Quentyn returned the embrace, feeling the years melt away. Aemond was only one year his elder, and they had been nigh inseperable as boys; it appeared time had not dulled that bond.

Aemond released him and looked him in the eye again. _He has learned to be direct. He is a man grown, same as me, wehre Aegon still acts a boy. Maybe this _will_ work._ "We _must_ go speak with father, Quentyn. There is no time to spare, and Rhaenyra _must not rule_. The Targaryen dynasty ends with her if she does; she will tear this kingdom apart."

Quentyn knew he was right.

"Lead on then, Aemond. Let us go speak with our lord father."

Aemond smiled and strode from the room, with Quentyn following close behind him. They walked up two flights of stairs and down a hallway to the door of their father's chambers. Aegon was outside the door, tapping his foot impatiently. Through the heavy oaken door, King Viserys could be heard laughing. Quentyn took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Viserys's laugh was cut short at the sound of the knock. A chair scuffed the ground, footsteps approached the door, and Ser Cristan pulled it open from within. He frowned slightly at the sight of the princes, but he turned and announced them to the small council. "My lords, the Princes Aegon, Aemond, and Quentyn Wildfire."

King Viserys's solar was a large room, carpeted in purple, with paintings of previous kings adorning the walls. Six of the Kingsguard stood against the walls as well, in a circle about the solar. A rectangular table sat in the center, with King Viserys at the head. Arrayed about the table were the small council members. At the king's right hand sat Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King and Quentyn's grandfather. Next to him sat Grand Maester Orwyle, an old, balding man with a stooped back. His maester's chain had so many links in it, however, that it hung nearly to his belt; old he may be, but there was no better maester in the Seven Kingdoms. To Orwyle's left sat the Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister; he wore a cloth-of-gold tunic with a roaring lion emblazoned on the chest in red thread. Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, sat to the left of Tyland; at the foot of the table, Ser Cristan was taking his seat. Across the table was Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, and Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers. And there, at the king's left hand, Princess Rhaenyra was seated.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was no beauty. She was thick in the waist and belly, with a large bodice. Her face would have been comely enough, were it not for the sneer she always seemed to be wearing. Her silver hair hung down her back in a thick braid, after the style of Old Valyria; she was dressed in a gown of deep purple, with golden Myrish lace worked in intricate patterns. The bodice of her dress was crusted with pearls. Her pudgy figers were covered in rings; she had a habit of twisting them when she was nervous, Quentyn remembered. But her eyes gave away her true character; they were cold, hard, and full of low cunning. She fixed her gaze on Quentyn and smiled.

"Dear brother. How good of you to come all the way from Dragonstone, just to see me named heir," she said, her voice playful.

Aegon stepped forward, clearly intending to speak, but Aemond grabbed him and pulled him back. "Let Quentyn handle this," Aemond hissed to Aegon. Quentyn paid them no heed. He had eyes only for his father and his sister.

"Your Grace. I am sorry to intrude upon your small council meeting," Quentyn said, bowing. His father waved away the apology, frowning. "Do not apologize, just tell me what it is you and your brothers want," Viserys huffed. "We were in the middle of drawing up plans for the tourney. We have only three days to prepare; ships from the Iron Islands have already begun arriving, the lords from the Reach and the Westerlands will likely be here as early as tomorrow, and we need space to house them, food to feed them, and coin for both. When the lords of the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North get here, it will be even more crowded, and we have yet to even decide on a number for the champion's purse."

"Perhaps those preparations should be postponed until after we have spoken."

Viserys eyed his son warily. "Speak, then, and be quick."

"Yes, Prince _Wildfire_," Rhaenyra added. "We are most interested to hear why you have disturbed our meeting."

"You are the reason," Aegon said through clenched teeth. "You, and your attempts to steal what is rightfully mine."

"Aegon speaks true," Quentyn said quickly, drowning out his brother. "I believe this issue should be discussed one final time, before the small council. I believe their input is necessary for this decision to be made in wisdom."

"The decision is _made_!" the king roared.

"Your Grace, if I may speak?" Ser Cristan asked.

"No, you may not. Nor you, Hightower. Both your views are known, and both of you can keep them to yourselves." The king turned back to his sons. "You dare to come into my solar, into a meeting you have no part of, and waste my time rehashing old arguments. Dragonstone may have made you hard, but clearly it has also erased your memory of how a kingdom functions. Allow me to refresh you."

Viserys stood. "I am _king_ in this realm. You three are _princes_. My sons. You presume too much." His eyes never left Quentyn's. "Ser Cristan, please escort my sons from my solar and back to their chambers. Post guards at their doors. They are not to leave their rooms until the tournament." Ser Cristan stood to do what was asked of him.

"Stop. Let them speak."

Rhaenyra stood as well, her eyes on her brothers. "If they feel I am unfit to rule this kingdom, as so plainly they do, I would hear their reasons, father. I wish to know why my sweet brothers have banded against me. Perhaps they are right; we won't know until we have heard them."

"My daughter speaks wisdom. So be it; make your case, my sons." Viserys looked with a smile at his daughter. _No matter what I say, no matter how true my words, I will never sway him,_ Quentyn realized. _She is his last surviving child of the Arryn woman; he loves her more than all three of us, and she will prevail. She must not rule...but we shall have to find a way to keep her from the Iron Throne without father. _The thought made him sick, but he saw no other way. Aemond was right; Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne spelled the end of the Targaryen rule, perhaps even the end of the Seven Kingdoms.

Quentyn looked back at his two brothers. Aegon was scowling as always, his face red with rage, but Aemond was calm. When their eyes met, Aemond shook his head, just slightly, from side to side. _He sees it too_.

Quentyn turned back to the table. "Your Grace, if it please you, I wish to recant my words. I withdraw all objection to Rhaenyra's succession to the throne. I promise, I will not bother you with this again."

"As do I," Aemond added.

Rhaenyra smiled at them. "Thank you, dear brothers. I knew you would see wisdom."

Aegon pulled free of Aemond's grasp and strode past Quentyn, shouldering him out of the way. "I do _not_ recant my words," he spat. "I am your firstborn son, and the rightful heir. I will not be denied my inheritance."

_His own words weaken his cause_, Quentyn thought sadly, although Ser Cristan and Otto Hightower both nodded in agreement.

"Enough," the king said wearily. "Aegon, I have heard your arguments. I will not hear them again. I have already offered you the chance to marry Rhaenyra and rule beside her as King Reagent, but you have refused that offer. I have groomed Rhaenyra for the throne since she was a small child, and before you were born. The inheritance was hers to start, and it shall _remain_ hers." The king sat heavily and held out his cup. A serving girl bearing a flagon rushed over to refill his goblet with wine. The king drank deeply and set his cup aside.

"Ser Cristan, I have changed my mind. It seems that, while Quentyn and Aemond have seen wisdom, my eldest son will not. Please confine Prince Aegon to his chambers, and post guards at his door."

Ser Cristan rose again and took Aegon by the arm. "This is _wrong!_" Aegon bellowed as Ser Cristan led him from the solar. The door was shut by Ser Erryk as they left.

"Quentyn, Aemond, I thank you for laying this matter to rest. Would that your brother could do the same." The king sighed and held out his cup again. When it was full, he took a long swallow.

"Leave us to our business now. I will expect you both at the feast tonight. Quentyn, you must be reacquainted with Daenerys; it has been decided that the two of you shall wed the day after the tourney, so the lords of the land can be at attendance."

Quentyn jerked with surprise. "Your Grace, pardon my words, but I have no wish to be wed to my sister. You married Lady Arryn for love; I ask your favor to do the same, and choose my own bride."

"You do not have it," Viserys growled. "You shall wed Daenerys, and that is final. Go, now, before you make me angry for the third time today."

Quentyn gave a stiff bow and strode out of the solar, with Aemond close behind him. The door slammed shut as they exited. Quentyn was breathing hard, fists clenched, trying to contain his fury.

Aemond lay a hand on his shoulder. "Wedding Daenerys will not be so bad, brother. She is beautiful, and still a maiden besides, though she is eight-and-ten now."

"I find this practice of wedding family to be _disgusting_," Quentyn replied through clenched teeth. "It is the way of things," Aemond replied. When Quentyn didn't answer, Aemond turned and walked down the hall, leaving him alone with his rage.

Quentyn stalked back down the stairs to his room. He called a guard, and ordered him to have a tub of hot water brought to his chambers. "And make sure the serving girls stay behind to get my clothes; I shall need them washed before the feast tonight." "Yes, my prince," the guard replied, hurrying away. Quentyn entered his chamber, and stopped short. Seated on the foot of his bed was his younger sister.

Daenerys Targaryen was, indeed, beautiful. Unlike her sister, she was slim; she dressed simply, in a gown of soft purple silk belted a the waist with cloth-of-silver, unadorned by the jewels Rhaenyra loved so much. Her silver hair fell unbraided to the middle of her back. Her eyes were the same color as Quentyn's; a deep amethyst purple, flecked with scarlet. She smiled at him. "Hello, Quentyn."

"Daenerys."

She stood and walked across the chamber to him. "Father has informed me that we are to be wed in a few days," she said. "I thought it best to greet you where we could talk in private, without the cacaphony of a feast to distract us."

"That is father's wish, yes." Quentyn had not thought to find her here, alone in his bedroom.

"Wish?" she said playfully. "I thought it was more a _command_ than a wish."

"Command, then."

"You are not happy with the arrangement?" Her smile faded slightly.

Quentyn did not know what to say. _She's your sister,_ he thought.

_She's beautiful,_ he thought.

"Daenerys," he finally said, "I do not know you. You were but a small girl when I sailed for Dragonstone. You are a stranger to me. I always thought if I married, it would be for love, not at a royal command."

"You will come to love me, I know it," she replied. She lay a hand on his chest, brought her face close to his...and stepped back when the door swung open. Six servant girls were in the hall; four carried large buckets of steaming water, and the others bore a large bronze basin. "My prince, you requested a bath? And for your clothes to be washed?" one of the girls asked tentatively, looking between Quentyn and Daenerys.

_Seven be praised_, Quentyn thought. "Yes, bring in the basin and fill it." He turned back to Daenerys. "Princess, we shall talk more tonight at the feast."

Daenerys was graceful in her exit. "Of course, my prince," she said with a smile. On her way out the door, however, she turned and gave him a slow, sly wink before she departed.

The servant girls set the tub in the center of the room and filled it with hot water from the buckets; they left soap and a horsehair brush on the floor next to it. Quentyn disrobed quickly, tossing the clothes to the servants. They departed, and he eased himself into the hot water, feeling the heat massage muscles sore from his long flight.

As he soaked, Quentyn contemplated his situation. Daenerys was beautiful, no doubt about it, but he still had no desire to wed her. Much as he may wish otherwise, however, his father was the king, and he could not directly defy his wishes if he wanted to remain in Westeros. _And she wants me as well,_ he thought. _That look she gave me..._

Wind buffeted his window; outside, the storm still raged, the storm that had followed him from Dragonstone. _I never should have come back,_ he thought bitterly to himself. He lay back in the tub and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Quentyn was dressing in his freshly washed leathers when the knock came at his door. "Enter," he growled. The bath had done little to improve his mood.

Aemond opened the door and entered Quentyn's chamber. "The feast will begin soon," he said, closing the door behind him.

Quentyn snorted. "The feast to welcome me back to the capital...where I will be forced to swear fealty to a false queen and marry a woman I barely know. I do not wish to be welcomed. I wish to be given leave to return home."

"I am glad you were not given leave," Aemond said, sitting in the chair at Quentyn's writing desk. "I need you here. I need your help. Aegon is sullen and temperamental, but he will make a decent king, especially with the two of us to help guide him. We _must_ seat him on the Throne when father passes."

Quentyn sighed as he laced the front of his jerkin. "Your words are true, but they are also impossible. How are we to do this, if father puts his intentions in his will? It is one thing when a king dies and leaves no record of his wishes; it is quite another when his wishes are scrawled in maester's black and marked with the royal seal. Unless we kill Rhaenyra, which I will _not_ do, then we have no choice but to give her what counsel we can, and hope we can keep her in check."

Aemond smiled. Quentyn did not like that smile; it spoke to him of schemes, of words whispered in the dark, of plots and secrets. _Politics, _he thought, not for the first time. _Seven save me, this is why I left. Aemond always wanted to play the game of thrones. I wished to be as far from it as possible, and yet here I am, playing nonetheless._

"While you were brooding, I was meeting in secret with Ser Criston. He intends to crown Aegon, regardless of what father writes in his will."

Quentyn frowned. "That's treason," he said.

"Only if Rhaenyra is queen. The small council will back Aegon, Ser Criston assured me of that. I will back him as well. Once you are wed to Daenerys, you will speak for both of you; if you side with us, the kingdom will follow, and Rhaenyra will have no choice but to accept Aegon's rule, or be branded a traitor herself."

Aemond stood, stepping closer to Quentyn. "You did not think father sent for you on his own, did you?" Aemond asked, his voice low. "I suggested to him that all his children should be here to witness his proclamation. I needed you here. I cannot do this without your support. The realm will bleed if Rhaenyra is crowned. The Seven Kingdoms need you, Quentyn Wildfire."

_So it was Aemond who drug me into this mess, not father,_ Quentyn thought. He was angry, yes; his brother had tricked him back into the capital, back into the game of thrones, even knowing how Quentyn despised the trappings of politics. But he also knew Aemond was right; he was needed if the realm were to accept Aegon. "Fine. Should Aegon be crowned, I will back him...but not until that moment. I want no more troube with father, and I want none with Rhaenyra either. We both have recanted our complaints; let them believe that is the end of it."

Aemond smiled again. "Of course," he replied. "I want trouble as little as you do."

"Good. Let us get this feast over and done with, then. The sooner it is finished, the sooner we can go fly."

Aemond laughed. "It would be my pleasure to fly with you," he said, clapping Quentyn on the shoulder, "though this storm might dampen the fun." "Nonsense," Quentyn replied. "I fly Darkfyre in the storms around Dragonstone as often as possible. It's spectacular, trust me."

"I will have to see for myself; Meraxes and I have never flown a storm before. First, however, the feast."

Together they left Maegor's Holdfast and strode across the small courtyard towards the dry moat. The rain was still falling in sheets; Quentyn pulled up his hood, while Aemond suffered, cloakless. _I bet he wishes he weren't in velvet now,_ Quentyn thought with a chuckle. Lightning forked across the sky over the bay, momentarily painting the Keep in pale light. "So tell me, which of our leal subjects have arrived early for father's tournament?" Quentyn asked as thunder rolled through the Keep.

"The Greyjoys, the Tyrells, the Boltons, and the Lannisters," Aemond answered, grimacing. "The dregs of the kingdom," Quentyn replied, narrowing his eyes. He liked none of them, least of all the Lannisters.

They crossed the drawbridge and headed towards the open doors of the Great Hall. "They will be here a week, at most. Fear not, we shall be rid of them soon," Aemond laughed. _If the gods are good, I will not remain long enough to see them depart_, Quentyn thought. _The sooner this mummer's show is over, the sooner I can return to Dragonstone._

The Great Hall had been arranged for the feast. A thousand torched burned in the brackets along the walls. Long tables ran the length of the hall, with hundreds of people sitting and eating and laughing with one another. Quentyn spotted the crimson tunics of the Lannisters, the grey leather of the ironmen, the pink cloaks of the Boltons, and the golden rose of the Tyrells scattered throughout the men of the City Watch and the knights of King's Landing. Servants moved between the tables, carrying flagons and plates of food. Upon the dais sat an oaken table.

King Viserys sat at the center of the table, upon the Iron Throne. To his left sat Rhaenyra. _She sits where mother once sat,_ Quentyn thought. Queen Alicent Hightower, always a fragile woman, had died giving birth to Daenerys when he was but three years of age. Daenerys sat to the king's right, between two empty seats. The lords of Houses Greyjoy, Lannister, Tyrell, and Bolton were all seated at the dias as well, along with Otto Hightower and the rest of the small council. The Kingsguard stood in a line behind the Iron Throne, watching the crowd, vigilant as always. It appeared Aegon was still being confined; he was not in the hall, as far as the prince could see.

Quentyn watched Rhaenyra lean to her right and whisper something in Viserys's ear. The king's eyes snapped to Quentyn and Aemond. _Oh no..._Quentyn had time to think before his father stood and boomed, "Quiet!"

The hall fell silent. "My lords and ladies, it pleases me to present my son, Prince Quentyn Wildfire, who has come back to the capital after seven long years serving as Lord of Dragonstone. I would like to propose a toast, to my son's return. Give him the welcome he deserves!" The king threw back his cup and drank.

The hall erupted in cheers. Men pounded the tables with their fists, their tankards, and the butts of their knives. Someone took to chanting "Wildfire, Wildfire!" and soon the whole hall was chanting along with them.

Quentyn's scowl was deep by the time the cheering subsided. He bowed quickly before sweeping up the aisle to his father's table. Eyes followed him as he walked, and he could hear people whispering.

He knelt when he reached the dais. "Rise and come sit, Quentyn," his father said, patting the chair at his right hand, a place of high honor. It was also immediately to the left of Daenerys, who was smiling at Quentyn, though her eyes held a mischevious glint. "Yes, Your Grace," Quentyn said stiffy. He ascended the steep steps of the dais, making his way to the chair. Aemond was close behind him, sitting in the empty chair to Daenerys's right and immediately striking up a conversation with Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort; Quentyn did not know the man's first name, did not know any of the lords' first names. He had no reason to, on Dragonstone, but here in court he felt awkward in his lack of knowledge.

As he sat, his father turned to him and said, "There it is, that title again. What have I done to offend you this time?"

"Nothing, Your Grace."

"Bah. Have it that way, then. I'll not let you spoil a good feast."

The feast was, indeed, a good one; a massive boar had been killed in honor of his return, and the meat was a golden brown, basted in honey. There were stuffed capons, wild turkey, almond-roasted trout, lemon cakes, quails drowned in butter, and many other dishes besides; Quentyn could not keep track of them all, and ate little. He was used to simpler fare, and the lavish foods of King's Landing made him feel ill. He did, however, carve a large slice of the boar with his dagger; it was good meat. His father ignored him, instead shouting down the hall to lords and knights, conversing with the other men at the dais table, and eating constantly throughout.

Rhaenyra looked down the table, catching Quentyn's eye. She smiled at him, though the smile did not reach her eyes. "I want to congratulate you on your betrothal, Quentyn," she said, her eyes dancing with mirth.

"Thank you, sister."

"I also want to thank you for seeing wisdom. When I am queen, I will remember my friends." Rhaenyra winked at him; Quentyn did not like the look of that wink. He turned away from his sister, gesturing for a servant to fill his wine cup. It had been a long time since Quentyn had enjoyed more than one or two cups of wine in a sitting, and he felt like getting drunk. Maybe that would dull the shocks this day had brought him.

Daenerys turned to him and smiled. "Hello again, my prince," she said with a wink. He ignored her, drinking his cup dry and gesturing for another. "Leave the flagon," he growled at the servant.

"Are you upset?" Daenerys asked him, lightly touching the back of his hand.

"I am fine, thank you."

"You don't seem fine. I am to be your wife; you can talk to me."

Quentyn moved his hand out from under her's. "I am fine, I promise," he said, draining another cup of wine and pouring from the flagon.

Daenerys just slid closer to him. "You will never get to know me if you don't talk to me," she pouted. "I only want to make you happy. Is that so bad?"

"You are my sister, Daenerys. I love you as a sister, but that is all I will ever love you as."

"You say that now," she replied, the mischevious look returning to her eye. "But father will make sure our marriage is consummated, so that you cannot simply set it aside when we return to Dragonstone. A maid I may be, but I have certain...training, that I procured once I heard my husband was to be the great Quentyn Wildfire, Dread Lord of Dragonstone."

She leaned even closer, her lips almost touching his ear. "I had one of the Myrish pleasure girls from the city smuggled into the castle as one of my handmaids. She taught me everything she knew. I can do things you've never imagined." Her hand was on his thigh. He didn't remember her putting it there, but he made no move to remove it. He didn't know what to do; like it or not, he was to marry this woman. _Perhaps I should make the best of a bad situation_, he thought, his head already growing fuzzy from the wine.

Before Daenerys could say more, however, a loud knock came from the doors of the Great Hall, which had been shut behind Quentyn and Aemond to keep out the storm. She sat back in her chair, removing her hand from his leg.

To Quentyn's right, Viserys looked up from a leg of mutton, grease filming his mustache. "Open the doors!" he shouted down the hall.

Two guards rushed to obey. They pulled the door wide; the sound of thunder filled the Great Hall as lightning forked the sky, obscuring the people on the threshold. A shiver ran up Quentyn's spine.

Eight people stepped into the Great Hall. All wore hooded cloaks of grey wool trimmed in white, with fur on their shoulders. As the doors were pulled shut, they straightened, and all but one cast off their hoods. The tallest of the eight stepped forward and bowed low. Black hair tumbled to his shoulders in loose curls; his face was covered in a thick beard. "Your Grace. Is there room in your hall for a few more?"

Viserys laughed. "Lord Jon Stark. Welcome to King's Landing! I did not expect you for another day at the least." He turned to the servants. "Make a place for Lord Stark and his children at the dais!"

Quentyn studied the men from Winterfell. He had never been to the North before; to him, the men looked half-wild. They dressed in grey leather jerkins, with the sigil of House Stark stitched on the breast. They all wore thick beards; their eyes were hard, studying the faces of those in the room. Four of them wore swords at their hips, one had a twin-bladed axe, and the hilt of a greatsword poked over the shoulder of the last. Lord Stark carried the greatsword Ice, a heavy blade of Valyrian steel that had belonged to The King Who Knelt. Two of them strongly resembled Lord Jon. _His sons, I imagine._ The smallest of the party still wore their hood, wrapped in their cloak. _Interesting._

The Northmen made their way to the base of the dais and knelt, bowing their heads. "Rise, friends," the king said with a smile. "Lord Jon, you must introduce these men to me; it has been years since I visited the North, and I fear I do not know them."

The Northmen stood. "Your Grace, allow me to present my sons, Brandon and Tohrren," Lord Jon said. The two Stark boys stepped forward. "Your Grace," Brandon Stark said, bowing his head. "These other four are Ser Rodin Karstark, Ser Jorah Cassel, Ser Brynden Snow, and Ser Larys Wyland. All serve me at Winterfell." As they were introduced, each man in turn stepped forward with a bow and a "Your Grace."

"I'm sure you didn't travel alone," Viserys chuckled. "Where are the rest of your men?"

"In the keep, with our wagons," Lord Jon answered. "Well, that won't do! Bring your men indoors; I shall have servants sent to stable your horses and move your wagons out of the rain."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Lord Jon sent one of the knights to fetch them.

Only then did the king seem to notice the hooded one, standing slightly behind the others. "And who might this be?" the king asked, gesturing.

"Your Grace, allow me to introduce my daughter, Katarina."

She stepped forward and cast back her hood. _Gods be good,_ Quentyn thought, his eyes widening.

Katarina Stark was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Next to her, Daenerys looked like the Crone. Her dark hair tumbled down her back, thick with curls. Her face was slim, her skin a pale white. Her eyes were orbs of brown, deep as the Blackwater, flecked with specks of forest green. She was slim of waist, with gently curving hips; she was garbed in a light grey gown, with a white belt at the waist. Her cloak was clasped at the shoulder with a piece of grey iron, wrought in the shape of the direwolf of House Stark.

Katarina stepped forward and curtsied. "Your Grace," she said, her voice soft. _She speaks, and it sounds like music,_ Quentyn thought. He was stunned; never had he imagined the wild North could hold such a treasure.

"Well met, Katarina," Viserys said with a smile. He turned to Lord Jon. "I never knew you had a daughter, Jon."

"She was born a year after your last trip to Winterfell, Your Grace," Lord Jon answered.

"That makes her, what, six-and-ten?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Your memory is infalliable."

Katarina met Quentyn's gaze. She smiled at him, and his heart skipped a beat. He returned her smile, until he felt Daenerys dig her elbow into his ribs.

"Lord Jon, allow me to introduce my youngest son, Prince Quentyn Wildfire," Viserys said, gesturing to Quentyn. "He has joined us for the tournament from his seat on Dragonstone."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my prince," Lord Jon said, turning his gaze to Quentyn. "You as well, my lord," Quentyn replied. "I have heard much of the North, and of Winterfell; it pleases me to meet our Warden of the North."

"I have heard much of you as well, my prince. Your Black Dragons are renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their skill in battle; it is an honor to meet their High Commander."

"Thank you, my lord," Quentyn replied with a smile. "You honor me."

The king clapped his hands. "You must be weary after yout travels. Please, join us and eat. There is still plenty of boar to be had, and we have a fresh vintage from the Arbor."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Jon replied. They made their way up the dias and around the left side of the table. Katarina sat near the end; as she was sitting, she glanced at Quentyn and smiled again. Quentyn was finding it hard to breathe.

Only after Katarina had looked away to accept a cup of wine did Quentyn notice Daenerys tugging at his sleeve. He turned to her. She was scowling, her brow furrowed. "Does the Stark girl interest you, my prince?" she asked him, irritation in her voice.

Aemond leaned back in his seat to get Quentyn's attention. "She is beautiful, Quentyn, but you are betrothed. Do not forget that." _Do not forget we need this marriage of we are to crown Aegon, you mean, _Quentyn thought bitterly.

Annoyance welled within the prince. "I have forgotten nothing," he said with a frown. "Really. I thought your jaw was going to fall from your face when she removed her hood," Deaenerys replied, her scowl deepening. Aemond just looked at him; Quentyn could see the scorn in his brother's eyes. _He acts as if I am some child. I know as much of this game as he does, or has he forgotten?_

Quentyn no longer felt much like feasting. He turned to his father. "Your Grace, if you will excuse me; I am going to make sure Darkfyre has found a roost."

His father just waved a hand in dismissal, drinking from his cup with the other. Quentyn stood, pulling his sable cloak about him, and stepped off the dais. He walked along the length of the hall and pulled one of the great doors open. He paused on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder at the dais. Daenerys and Aemond were both frowning at him. Aemond shook his head slightly. The king was back to his food, talking with Lord Jon as he ate.

Quentyn stole one last glance at Katarina Stark. She was watching him, her goblet held below her nose. Her eyes twinkled in the torchlight.

Pulling up his hood, Quentyn left the hall and walked into the storm.


	5. Chapter 5

Quentyn stalked through the rain, his hood up, as lightning forked across the sky. He wandered with no real direction in mind; he had no idea where Darkfyre might be, and did not relish searching the city for his dragon in this weather. _Better and better,_ he thought sullenly.

He crossed the keep to a stair that led to the battlements along the wall of the keep. He climbed and stood atop the wall, looking out across King's Landing. The rain obscured his vision; he could see less than a hundred yards beyond the wall. _I'll never find Darkfyre in this._

Quentyn still seethed over the events of the feast. His father's introduction had embarrassed him, yes, but the behavior of his siblings had ignited his rage. _They think me some sort of fool,_ he thought angrily. _I am as devoted to the realm as Aemond is, I proved that in the red wastes; I am the king's best counselor, and my army would fight to the last man for the Iron Throne. I have bled for this kingdom; can any of those cravens in that hall say the same?_

Soon, however, his thoughts turned unbidden to Katarina Stark. He shivered, remembering how her eyes had sparkled in the torchlight as he had left the hall. He had never been so hypnotized by a woman before. He had seen his share of beauties; when he was a boy in the Red Keep, lords had called on his father often, and many of them had brought their daughters to offer in marriage to one of his sons. Viserys had refused them all, but not for lack of suitable brides; Katarina, however, outshone them all.

Restless, Quentyn walked back into the keep. He did not wish to return to his chambers, where Aemond or Daenerys might find him, but nor would he return to the Hall; he wheeled and walked towards a tall tower, where the ravens were kept.

Entering the tower, the prince removed his hood and ascended the stairs. He reached the top and pulled open the oaken door to the rookery, where he was greeted by the screams of several large black ravens in cages along the wall. A desk sat in the middle of the room, covered in small rolls of parchment, quills, and pots of ink and sand. A candle burned on the desk, but Quentyn was alone in the room; the Grand Maester was still at the feast, it seemed.

The prince crossed the room and sat at the desk. He grabbed a small tin cup, dropped a square of black sealing wax in it, and set it on the stand over the candle to heat; grabbing a slip of parchment and a quill, he bent to write. _My father has decreed I am to fight in a tournament. You have two days to reach King's Landing with my armor, a small chest of my clothing, and your two best swordsmen; if Dragonstone is to be represented, it will be represented well. Good speed and safe travels._ He signed his name:_ Quentyn of the House Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, High Commander of the Black Dragons, and Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. _He sprinkled sand on the parchment to dry the excess ink.

He rolled the parchment and dripped black wax onto it, pressing the ring he wore on his right hand into the wax to imprint it with the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. His letter sealed, he stood and walked to the cages, tying the parchment to the leg of a raven and carrying it to the window. "Dragonstone," he told it. The raven regarded him with a beady eye and squawked once in response.

Quentyn opened the window and threw the raven into the storm. He watched it fly away, carrying his message out over the bay.

The prince had not put a name on the message, but in his absence all ravens were delivered to his cousin, Ser Daemon Targaryen, second-in-command of the Black Dragons. Daemon had been sent with Quentyn to Dragonstone as his squire; he had advised Quentyn while the prince hand-picked every one of the ten thousand men who made up his personal army. Daemon was a shrewd commander, a brilliant strategist, a master swordsman, and a veteran of war, despite his being only nine-and-ten. As a member of a lesser branch of House Targaryen, he was raven-haired, with dark blue eyes, as opposed to the silver-and-purple of the royal family. He had still been a squire when Quentyn took the Black Dragons to war across the Narrow Sea, but he had fought as bravely as any knight during that desperate campaign, staying alive when many an older man had died.

Quentyn had knighted him personally after the war, some two years past, and elevated him to second-in-command. Daemon was the only man to have bested the prince at swordplay, and then only a few times. The prince trusted his cousin with his life, and left the rule of Dragonstone to him on the rare occasions he traveled.

Quentyn knew he could trust Daemon to follow his instructions perfectly. His letter sent, he left the rookery and crossed the keep to Maegor's Holdfast; he was weary from the long day and the troubles he had endured, and wanted nothing more than to sleep, perhaps with the aid of a few more cups of wine. _Or a barrel_, he thought. The storm had abated; though the sky was still black with clouds, the rain had stopped, and the wind had died down some. The sounds of the feast could still be heard from the Great Hall. The prince crossed the dry moat unseen and entered the Holdfast through the same side door he had used that morning.

Once in his chambers, Quentyn felt a little better. He could expect Daemon and two knights of the Black Dragons sometime on the morrow, and the thought of being in the company of his own men cheered him. He opened the door and called for a servant, asking for a barrel of wine. "Make sure it's strong," he told the boy; he had decided he still had a desire for intoxication, especially after the events of the feast. The boy nodded and hurried down the hall.

While he waited for his wine, Quentyn took an oilcloth from a drawer in his desk and sat down to clean Shadowrend. He drew the sword and rolled it back over his wrist. The sword was incredibly light, a result of the spells used during the forging by the smiths of Old Valyria. There were many swords of Valyrian steel in Westeros, but the process of their making had been lost in the Doom. Quentyn polished the black blade with the cloth, being careful not to cut himself; the sword was sharp enough to shave with, and though he used it often while training with his men and had carried it into battle on the red wastes, it had never dulled or notched.

The servant returned a few minutes later, carrying a small cask of wine. Quentyn thanked him and carried the wine to the desk, sheathing Shadowrend. The cup and flagon from that afternoon were still there; in a few moments, Quentyn drained what remained of the Arbor gold, feeling the wine take immediate effect. His head grew fuzzy, his tongue thick, and warmth bloomed in his belly. Quentyn rarely drank more than a cup of wine with his meals; he loathed not being in full control of his actions, but tonight, he needed the escape. He uncorked the cask and filled his cup again. The servant had brought him a bitter red vintage; he knew not where from, but it was strong, and soon he was well and truly drunk.

The cask was close to half empty when the knock came. Quentyn snapped his head around, spilling wine from his cup, staining the rug. "Enter!" he called, his voice thick. The door swung open and Aemond entered. He paused when he saw Quentyn, who was slouched over in his chair, his cup held loosely in one hand. "Are you drunk?" Aemond asked, swinging the door shut behind him. "Indeed, dear brother," Quentyn replied, stumbling to his feet. "Can you blame me? After that feast, I deserve one night to myself, do I not?"

Aemond sighed. "I understand why you're upset. You've been your own master since you were still a boy, and now you're being cornered into doing things you have no taste for. But that's part of being a prince. You must do your duty to the realm; marrying Daenerys is but a small part of that duty. Why do you rebel against it so? It's unavoidable; father will have his way, no matter how much you protest."

Quentyn collapsed back into his chair and drained his glass. "I know," he sighed. Aemond sat on the edge of the table. Taking the cup from Quentyn's hand, he poured a glass for himself, wincing slightly at the bitterness of the wine. "Myrish," he said, "and strong. How much have you had?" Quentyn just shrugged. Aemond shook the barrel slightly, and frowned when he found it more than half empty. "Are you trying to drown yourself in cheap wine?" he asked, irritation in his voice. "You are a prince, act like one."

"I am Lord of Dragonstone, and that's all I want to be," Quentyn replied, taking the cup back from Aemond. "I don't want anything to do with father's politics. I don't want to play the game of thrones. I want to remain on Dragonstone, where I have only a small village and my own men to contend with. It's simple, it's peaceful, and after what happened in the red wastes, it's all of ruling and kings and _duty_ I want."

"And you shall have it. You'll be allowed to return once you're wed, and the only difference will be the wife to warm your bed and the sons she'll bear you. Is that such a burden?"

Quentyn chuckled. "Until father dies, that is. Then I get to be a part of your grand scheme to ignore the will of the king and crown Aegon instead of Rhaenyra. I very much doubt that will go peacefully."

Aemond frowned. "Father is an old man. His death will come soon, perhaps within the year. And crowning Aegon will be a simple matter; we place a crown on his head, declare him king, and that's the end of it. With nobody to back her claim, Rhaenyra will have no choice but to accept his rule, unless she wants to lose her head as a traitor. You can even send an emissary, perhaps Ser Daemon, to declare your allegiance to Aegon; you need not come yourself if you don't wish."

Aemond leaned over, placing a hand on Quentyn's shoulder. "This is the first time I've seen you in seven long years, little brother. I have missed you sorely, and I do not wish to have your visit be filled with harsh words and anger. I beg you, make peace with what you must do. It will happen whether or not you accept it; it will be much easier on you if you do not fight back."

He stood. "We did not get to fly tonight," he said sadly. Quentyn felt his bitterness recede, to be replaced with shame. _I have been foolish,_ he thought, _and I have wounded my brother, the closest friend I have ever known_. He rose from the chair and embraced his brother. Aemond was startled, but returned the embrace. "Aemond, I am sorry," Quentyn said, stepping back a pace. "You are right. Tomorrow, I will make peace with father, and spend some time with Daenerys." He smiled, "And I promise you, we shall fly together."

"Thank you," Aemond said, returning the smile. "It gladdens me to hear you say that." He chuckled. "Now I think you should get some sleep. I do not envy you the headache you will have tomorrow." Quentyn swayed, unsteady on his feet; he had forgotten his weariness, but it came rushing back, making him light-headed. "Yes," he mumbled, stumbling towards his bed. He heard Aemond leave as he pulled off his belt, cloak, and leathers. He collapsed on his mattress in naught but his smallclothes; sleep took him instantly.


	6. Chapter 6

_What in the seven hells was I thinking,_ Quentyn thought when he awoke. His mouth was parched, his lips dry and cracking, and his head throbbed as if a giant were clapping its hands against his temples. He rose with a groan and stumbled to the chamber pot in the corner to relieve himself. The sun was shining through his window; the storm had fully dissipated, and the prince guessed the hour to be just before midday.

Someone had been in to remove the evidence of his folly the night before. _Aemond's work, no doubt_, Quentyn thought, grateful. There was a plate with bread and cold meat on his table, and a flagon of water. Quentyn drank straight from the flagon, the water cooling his dry throat and easing the pain in his head. He tore into the food, devouring the loaf and half the meat; he felt much better with food in his belly.

As he was finishing the water in the flagon, a knock came at his door. _Will I ever find a moment of peace in this city?_ he thought, irritated. "Who is it?" he called over his shoulder.

"Katarina Stark," a musical voice answered. Quentyn's breath caught in his throat. He was still in naught but his smallclothes. "Just...just a moment, my lady!" he called, hastily pulling on his clothing, lacing his breeches as he walked to the door.

Quentyn took a deep breath and opened the door. She stood framed in the doorway; dressed in a pure white gown belted in black, she shone brighter than the sunlight falling through the window. Katarina smiled at him and curtsied. "Good morning, my prince," she said. "I wanted to meet you in person, but did not get a chance at the feast. Many stories are told of the Dread Lord of Dragonstone."

Quentyn didn't know what to do. "My lady," he replied after a moment, bowing. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Katarina smiled again. Her teeth were a brilliant white. _She's the Maiden embodied,_ Quentyn thought, uncomfortably aware of how disheveled he looked. "What can I do for you, my lady?" he asked, shifting awkwardly.

Katarina laughed. "Please, my prince, call me Kat." Her laugh was like the trilling of birds in the morning. "Certainly, my lady. Call me Quentyn," he replied, smiling tentatively. Katarina just laughed again. "Are you always so formal, Quentyn?" she asked him. "Yes. I mean, no, not always..." The prince found himself at a loss for words.

Fortunately, Katarina seemed not to notice. "I won't take up any more of your time," she said, curtsying again. "Could you tell me where the godswood is? I wish to pray; my mother has taken ill." "The godswood is hard to find; I'll walk you there," Quentyn replied quickly. He grabbed his cloak and swordbelt and stepped out of his room, closing the door behind him. "Are you sure?" Katarina asked him. "I don't want to trouble you." "It's no trouble at all," Quentyn said with a smile, belting on Shadowrend and pulling his cloak around his shoulders.

Katarina returned his smile. "Thank you," she said with another curtsy.

_What am I thinking?_ Quentyn mused as they walked down the stairs and into the courtyard. _This is the height of folly. I am betrothed._

Together they crossed the drawbridge over the dry moat. "This way, my lady," Quentyn said, turning towards the north end of the Red Keep. "Kat, please," Katarina replied with a wink. "Lady Stark is my mother." Quentyn couldn't help but laugh. "This way, Kat," he said, smiling. The grin felt odd to his face; he was a man who rarely smiled, but he couldn't seem to stop this morning. _Daenerys couldn't make me smile like this,_ he thought.

They crossed the courtyard of the Keep, the cobbles warm beneath their feet. Kat slid her arm around his as they walked; Quentyn felt his heart skip a beat when she did.

The godswood in the Red Keep was an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees at the northernmost point of the Keep, in an earthen plot of ground separated from the castle by a tall, thick wall. It had only three walls around it; the godswood was open to the north, overlooking Blackwater Rush. It had no weirwood tree, either; the heart tree was an ancient oak, grown massive in its long years. Katarina gasped slightly when she beheld the view over the river.

"This is beautiful," she sighed. "I have never been south before...your city is stunning."

"It's not my city," Quentyn replied. "This is my first time in King's Landing for seven years...except for one six-month span, I have not left Dragonstone."

"But you grew up here," she said, turning towards him slightly. "Winterfell is beautiful, in its way, but there is no sight like this in the North."

"I have never been to the North. What's it like?"

"Cold," she laughed. "And usually covered in snow. There are pine forests that run for leagues, and only a few towns."

"I think I would like the North," Quentyn said. "I prefer solitude to a city like this. King's Landing can be beautiful, but it's also crowded, dirty, and loud. I much prefer Dragonstone."

"And what's Dragonstone like?" she asked him.

Quentyn laughed. "Cold," he said, smiling. "I would like it then," she said, returning his smile.

They stood for a moment, arm in arm, looking out over the Rush and the kingswood beyond it. Quentyn was the happiest he had been since arriving in the capital. Then a loud roar shattered the stillness, echoing from the forest; Katarina jumped slightly, looking about, but Quentyn just laughed again. "Fear not," he said as a cloud of birds erupted from the kingswood, "I know that roar."

Darkfyre erupted from between the trees. The sunlight glinted off his midnight scales, making them shine like black flame. He flew out over the bay and dove, sending a spray of water high in the air.

Katarina seemed shaken. "Is he yours?" she asked Quentyn as Darkfyre emerged from the bay, a shark caught between his teeth. Black flame engulfed the shark from the dragon's throat, and he swallowed the charred beast whole before diving again. "He's so big..."

"The biggest alive today," Quentyn said, feeling proud. "The other dragons are often made to roost indoors, in places like the Dragonpit, and it stunts their growth. Darkfyre has never been enclosed, so he grew much faster than the rest."

"I've never seen a dragon before," Katarina said, awe in her voice, as Darkfyre flew out of the bay with another shark in his jaws. "Would you like to meet him?" Quentyn asked. Katarina shivered slightly, but replied, "Sure...so long as it's safe."

"It's quite safe; I've trained him since he was a hatchling." Quentyn cupped his hands around his mouth. "DARKFYRE!" he roared, his call echoing across the city.

The dragon banked hard, turning towards the sound of his master's voice. In moments, he was at the edge of the godswood, the wind of his wings filling the courtyard. Quentyn and Katarina retreated quickly, making room for him to land. Darkfyre touched down on his hind legs, claws digging seep into the soft dirt. He folded his wings, remaining upright; the godswood was too small for him to fully land without leveling it.

Katarina was visibly frightened. "He won't harm you," Quentyn reassured her. "Here, watch." He stepped forward, and the dragon lowered his head down to the prince. Quentyn scratched the scales behind the dragon's horns, and Darkfyre leaned into the tickling fingers, his mouth opening slightly. "See? He's perfectly trained. Many dragons are half-wild, but not Darkfyre."

Katarina laughed. "Is it safe if I touch him?" she asked.

"Certainly. So long as I'm here, he won't attack unless commanded."

Katarina slowly approached the dragon. She reached out tentatively, laying her hand on his snout. Darkfyre snorted, the wind from his nostrils ruffling her dress and blowing back her hair. She coughed. "His breath stinks of ashes."

"Dragons are fire made flesh," Quentyn replied. He turned to his dragon. "Darkfyre, this is Katarina Stark. Kat. Remember her."

The dragon turned his head slightly, so that Katarina was reflected in one of his massive scarlet eyes. He blinked once, slowly, and snorted again. "There," Quentyn said, turning to her, "he'll remember you now. He will never harm you unless I tell him to, and you can touch or even ride him. He's trained to remember people; you're the first person outside my family or the Black Dragons he knows."

Katarina looked shocked. "Quentyn...my prince...you honor me. Thank you." She walked to him and softly kissed his cheek, resting her hand on his chest as she did so. Quentyn hoped she couldn't feel the rapid beat of his racing heart beneath his jerkin.

Katarina stepped back and smiled. Quentyn returned her smile, admiring the way her eyes shone in the sunlight. _What am I doing...I will be married in three days, this is such folly,_ he thought, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. _The Others take Daenerys, Rhaenyra, father, the kingdom...I'd go back to the red wastes and fight a thousand slave soldiers myself if it meant I could have this woman._

"You said you wished to pray; I shall leave you in privacy," Quentyn said, suddenly feeling awkward again.

Katarina curtsied. "Thank you for a wonderful morning," she said, smiling again at him. "It was my pleasure, Kat," he replied with an answering smile.

"Shall I see you again before the tournament?" she asked him. "There is much I still would like to talk about."

"Perhaps," he said with a wink. She laughed at that.

Quentyn climbed up Darkfyre's hind leg, then his spine, using the row of spikes along his back as rungs. When he reached his customary seat in the hollow of Darkfyre's shoulders, he was higher than the walls of the Keep.

From his high perch, Katarina seemed no taller than his little finger. He waved down at her. "Until next time, Katarina Stark!" he called down to her. "Until next time, Quentyn Wildfire!" she answered with a laugh, returning his wave.

He touched his heels to Darkfyre's neck, and the dragon threw himself backwards in the air, upside down. He gripped the dragon's rough scales with his knees and threw his arms out wide, whooping with joy. The dragon righted himself and banked, flapping hard to gain altitude. As they passed over the Red Keep, Quentyn could see Katarina looking up at them from the godswood.

Darkfyre banked again, headed out over the bay. "Higher!" Quentyn shouted, tapping with his heels again. Darkfyre answered with a roar as he angled up, climbing rapidly. Soon, they were lost in the fluffy white clouds over King's Landing.

As they flew through the clouds, Quentyn let his mind wander, thinking about Katarina. _She is beautiful, witty, and kind_, Quentyn thought. _She is also impossible for me to have. I am to be wedded in but three days._ Quentyn frowned; he would choose Katarina Stark over Daenerys in a heartbeat, but he knew his father would never allow it. He ground his teeth in frustration. _Here is a woman I would gladly marry, and yet I am forced to wed my own sister._

He could see no solution to his problem. Soon, however, thoughts of his predicament gave way to thoughts of Katarina again, and he smiled to himself as Darkfyre broke through the tops of the clouds into the sunlight.

_She is so beautiful..._


	7. Chapter 7

It was midafternoon when Darkfyre touched down in front of the Dragonpit, the massive structure built in King's Landing to house the dragons of House Targaryen. The Dragonpit was a massive marble dome, fronted by two gargantuan bronze doors big enough for even Darkfyre to fit through. It was situated at the top of Rhaenys's Hill, on the northern end of the city. Quentyn had promised to fly with Aemond today; he meant to keep that promise, and Aemond's dragon Meraxes roosted in the Dragonpit.

Darkfyre crouched low to allow the prince to dismount. He leapt to the cobbles, stumbling slightly as he landed; even crouched, Darkfyre was tall, and it was a long drop from his back to the ground. Quentyn turned to his dragon. "Stay here," he commanded, "and harm nobody." The dragon snorted in response and lay down on his scaly belly, closing his eyes.

Quentyn walked down the Street of Sisters, one of the main avenues that crossed King's Landing. At the base of Rhaenys's Hill stood a group of the City Watch, two of them holding horses by the reins, talking amongst themselves. Quentyn hailed them as he approached.

"Greetings!" he called. The guards turned, and when they saw it was him, they knelt. "My prince!" they cried in unison when he reached them. "Rise, my friends," the prince replied. "I must return to the Red Keep to fetch my brother. Might I borrow one of your horses?"

"Of course, my prince," one of the men replied, passing the reins of his mount to Quentyn. He thanked the guard and swung himself into the saddle, pushing the horse into a hard gallop down the cobbled length of the Street of Sisters.

King's Landing was a large city; it was nearing evening when Quentyn finally galloped through the gates of the Red Keep. He dismounted in front of the drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast, handing the reins of the horse to a nearby guard dressed in the black and red of Targaryen. "Wait here until I return," he told the guard, who nodded.

Aemond was crossing the drawbridge; Quentyn waited for him, smiling. "Ready to fly, Aemond?" he asked as his brother approached. Aemond just shook his head.

"You need to go and see Daenerys," Aemond said, irritation coloring his voice. "She has been in her room all day, crying. You are to be her husband; go console your future bride. We can fly later."

Quentyn frowned slightly. "What has her so upset?"

Aemond returned his frown with a deep scowl. "You do. The way you acted last night, and the whispers that you were seen entering the godswood with Katarina Stark a few hours ago. You have wounded her deeply, brother, and you need to go make it right. Daenerys is your betrothed, not Lady Stark, and you would do well to remember that."

_I wish she _was_ my betrothed, instead of Daenerys,_ Quentyn thought to himself, but he did not voice his objection. He knew Aemond was right, like it or not. He nodded. "Okay. Where are her chambers?"

Some of the stiffness left Aemond's face. "She is but two doors down the hall from yourself," he said.

Quentyn rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Thank you for telling me," he said, and he meant it. "I have not forgotten what I said to you last night. I will go make amends.

Aemond's shoulders fell slightly, and he sighed. "It gladdens me to hear you say that," he said. "I will await you at the Dragonpit."

Quentyn nodded, and strode past his brother and across the drawbridge. He entered the castle, in the front for once, and climbed the stairs. When he entered the hallway where his chambers were located, he could hear soft sobs coming from Daenerys's room. The prince walked down the hallway to her door. He took a deep breath and knocked twice. "Daenerys?" he called.

"Who is it?" she answered. He heard her sniff. "It's Quentyn," he replied. "May I come in?" The prince heard her move about the room for the moment, and the ruffle of clothing. "Sure," she said, her voice a little stronger. "Come in."

Quentyn pulled the door open and stepped inside. Daenerys's chambers were much like his own; the only difference was the large chest of drawers in place of a writing desk. Daenerys was seated on the foot of her bed. It was clear she had not left her room that day; she was dressed in a sheer shift of light purple silk, and her silver hair was disheveled. Her large eyes were rimmed with red from crying.

Quentyn pulled the door closed behind him. "Are you okay?" he asked her, crossing the room. She sniffed again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Do I look okay?" she replied with a small chuckle.

The prince sat to her left on the edge of the bed. "Daenerys..." he began, but she held up a hand. "Don't, please," she said. "I know you do not want to marry me. And I saw the way you looked at the Stark girl last night. When I heard you were seen with her today...I felt like a little girl again when the king told me I was to marry the great Quentyn Wildfire. I was so excited. I should have expected a man like you would have no eyes for me. I am sorry I have behaved so foolishly. You must think me a child." She turned away from him, fresh tears visible in her eyes.

Quentyn was taken aback. _I did not know my reputation carried so much weight, _he thought. He cupped Daenerys's chin, gently turning her head back towards him. "I am the one who has been foolish," he said softly. "You are not at fault for my behavior. I have lived in solitude for so long, the idea of being married at all was alien to me. You are a beautiful woman, and any man should be lucky to have you; I am sorry I did not show you more kindness."

Daenerys smiled tentatively. "Do you mean it?" she asked. "You're not in love with Katarina Stark?" _I might be, _Quentyn thought ruefully, _but she is not my betrothed. _Out loud, he said, "No, I am not. And I am sorry for that as well. She is not the one I am to marry; I should not have acted as I did. Can you forgive me?"

Daenerys studied his face for a moment, the tears leaving her eyes. She nodded slightly, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Yes," she whispered, and kissed him.

Her lips were soft against his, her mouth open. Quentyn kissed her back, cupping her cheek with his palm, but could not help but think of Katarina. _I wish it was her...Seven save me._ He wrenched his mind away from Katarina, pulling Daenerys closer. She came willingly; their kisses deepened, and she moved one hand from Quentyn's neck to his thigh, slightly gripping the leather of his pants. Quentyn ran his hand up the soft skin of her leg to her waist, her shift bunching at the hip.

Daenerys lifted her hand from his thigh, and began unlacing the front of the prince's jerkin. Quentyn stopped her, lightly grabbing her hand and moving it away from his chest. He broke their kiss, leaning back. Daenerys was panting slightly; her the strap of her shift had slipped off one shoulder, baring the top of her right breast. "Too fast," he said gently. "We will be married in but a few days; save the tricks of your Myrish woman for our wedding night." He tugged the strap of her shift back into place and kissed her once more, softly.

Daenerys sat straighter and nodded. "You...you're sure you want to marry me?" she asked him. He could see the hope in her eyes. _In many ways, she is _still _a little girl,_ Quentyn thought. "Yes," he replied, smiling. "It would be my honor." Daenerys returned the smile, her face lighting up. "Thank you for coming," she said, leaning up and kissing his cheek. "I feel much better." She kissed the exact spot that Katarina had kissed earlier; Quentyn forced away the memory, though it was difficult. "I'm glad," he said to Daenerys with another smile. "I must go now though; I promised Aemond we would fly together, and I am expecting a ship from Dragonstone."

"Of course; my prince is a busy man," Daenerys said, giggling. She seemed much happier than she had a minute before; her cheeks were flushed, and she was smiling widely. Quentyn stood and walked towards the door.

"Oh, Quentyn," Daenerys called after him. He paused and turned back to her. She winked slowly at him. "I hope you are looking forward to our wedding night as much as I am," she said, laying back on her elbows. She was not wearing smallclothes beneath her shift, and the shape of her body was clearly visible beneath the sheer silk. Quentyn just smiled slightly, and left the room.

Once in the hallway, he could no longer control himself; thoughts of Katarina flooded his mind. He wished desperately that it had been her he had been kissing. _Idiot, _he thought, shaking his head. _In bed with your betrothed, and thinking of another woman. What would Aemond say?_ He frowned and stalked down the hallway. He knew exactly what his brother would say about it, and he agreed...but that did not change his feelings on the matter. _In time, I will forget about Katarina, and I am sure I will learn to love Daenerys,_ he thought sullenly, hating himself for thinking it.

Quentyn exited Maegor's Holdfast. The day was darkening rapidly; Quentyn looked to the sky, and saw dark clouds rolling in from the bay, lined with red from the lowering sun. _Another storm,_ he thought, the sight cheering him. He never felt better than when he was on dragonback, soaring through black clouds and driving rain, weaving through dancing bolts of white lightning. _And Aemond will get to experience it with me. _The prince grinned, despite his mood. He felt some of the tension leaving his body, and he jogged across the drawbridge to the courtyard of the Red Keep.

The still held the horse in the courtyard; Quentyn swung himself into the saddle, thanking the guard, and galloped through the gates and down Aegon's High Hill. He pushed the horse harder; people heading home leapt out of his path, shouting angrily at his flapping cloak as he sped towards the Street of Sisters.

Quentyn ripped the head of his horse to the right when he reached the spot where the Street of Sisters met the Kingsroad in the center of the city. He did not notice the man until it was too late; Quentyn's horse crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The prince pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the horse sliding to a stop; he jumped out of the saddle and ran back to the man.

"I am so sorry; I did not see you. Let me help you up," he said, extending a hand. The man knocked his hand away, muttering a curse, and pushed himself up to his feet.

The man stood as tall as Quentyn, with muscular arms and a thick neck. He was dressed in the flashy garb Quentyn had come to associate with Braavosi men; he had seen many ships while flying over Blackwater Bay, and the Braavosi did a good trade with King's Landing. The man wore a long, slender sword on one hip.

"Bugger your help," the man spat. He spoke the Common Tongue well, but with a thick accent. "You nearly killed me; I should return the favor."

Quentyn drew himself up straight. "You must not know who I am. I am Quentyn Wildfire, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; you will show respect, Braavosi."

A crowd had begun to form around them. The people of King's Landing were whispering, pointing in their direction. Men and women leaned out of windows to get a better view of the confrontation.

"Prince, eh? I've never had the pleasure of killing a prince before," the bravos said, grasping the hilt of his sword. Quentyn put his hand on Shadowrend. "Nor shall you today. Walk away now, and I shall forget this slight." The bravos just laughed and drew his sword. "Tytos Forelli does not back down from a fight. Draw your sword, little prince." He turned sideways, his sword held in front of him, in the classic stance of the Water Dancers of Braavos. Quentyn had fought their like before, on his way to the red wastes.

The prince smiled. His smile held no humor; his eyes were blazing as he drew Shadowrend. "Then you shall die today, Tytos Forelli."

The crowd around them had grown quite large now; the mouths of the streets around the square were choked with people. Quentyn could hear guards of the City Watch, shouting to be let through, but he ignored them. He wanted to fight; he had been frustrated to his wits' end the last two days, and finally, here stood the perfect outlet for his pent up anger.

The bravos spat on the cobbles and lunged forward, stabbing for the prince's face. Quentyn moved his head to the side, the tip of the blade passing by his cheek, and batted the sword away with a lazy flick of his wrist. He turned the parry into a thrust of his own with blinding speed; the bravos jumped back, barely avoiding the tip of Shadowrend.

The two warriors circled each other. Quentyn lashed out, moving his sword in a complex array of thrusts and cuts. The bravos backpedaled, turning Quentyn's blows aside, never meeting them head on; his blade was much narrower than Shadowrend's, and could not meet it edge to edge.

The bravos disengaged from a parry and struck back with a vicious downward cut. Quentyn dodged the blow and smashed his left fist into the man's face; his nose shattered, and blood poured onto the rich fabric of his tunic. The bravos backpedaled wildly, nearly losing his feet; the crowd saved him from falling over, pushing him away to stumble forward again. He quickly regained his balance, however, and faced Quentyn again, his nose dripping. "I'll kill you," he said through clenched teeth. Quentyn just smiled, and beckoned him forward.

The bravos attacked, weaving his slim blade almost too fast to follow. Quentyn did not try to block the blows; his sword by his side, he calmly gave ground, dodging the strikes, smiling all the while. The bravos grunted in anger and lunged, his sword plunging towards the prince's heart.

Quentyn whirled to the side; the bravos passed by him, carried forward by the momentum of his strike. Quentyn swung Shadowrend in a quick downward arc as he completed his spin, slashing the man across both calves. The bravos fell to the cobbles with a wordless cry of pain. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees, crawling towards his fallen sword.

Quentyn stepped forward and kicked the sword out of the bravos's reach. The bravos pushed himself upright on his knees, his blood flowing to the cobbles from the deep wounds in his legs. Quentyn stood in front of him, outlined against the setting sun, Shadowrend dripping blood, the dark clouds of the impending storm to his back, gazing down at the fallen warrior.

"Mercy, mercy," the man pleaded. Quentyn chuckled. "I think not," he replied, sweeping Shadowrend in a horizontal slash. The man's head fell from his shoulders in a gout of blood, rolling away on the cobbles. A sigh of air escaped his severed trachea as his body collapsed limply sideways.

The crowd was silent as the prince stepped forward and wiped the blood off the Valyrian steel on the fallen man's sleeve. He sheathed his blade, turning away from the body, and strode to his horse. "Make a path," he shouted as he swung into the saddle, "and tell the City Watch your prince is unharmed, and that I want this body removed and the blood cleaned off the streets before I return." The crowd parted before him as he urged the horse into a trot, headed towards the Dragonpit. Once clear of the press of bodies, he kicked the horse to a gallop again, flying up the Street of Sisters to the top of Rhaenys's Hill.

Darkfyre was laying in the same spot Quentyn had left him, in front of the great bronze doors of the Dragonpit. Aemond was standing some distance from him, watching the dragon warily. He turned when he heard the thunder of the horse's hooves on the cobbles; Quentyn reined the horse up next to him, leaping from the saddle. "Hello, brother," he said, tossing the reins over the neck of the horse.

Aemond frowned when he saw the bravos's blood on Quentyn's clothes. "Were you attacked?" he asked. "Yes, by some water dancer from Braavos. His blood stains the cobbles in the center of the city as we speak," Quentyn replied with a chuckle. Aemond just shook his head. "You're here two days, and already you have killed a man. Why does this not surprise me."

The brothers both burst out laughing. "Aemond, I think you know my dragon," Quentyn said when their mirth had died down. "Indeed, but I remember him being no larger than a cat, not Balerion reborn," Aemond replied, looking over at Darkfyre. "He growled at me when I approached him, and damned if I did not near soil myself. He's a monster."

"He wouldn't have harmed you; I've trained him not to attack people who look like me," Quentyn chuckled. "Darkfyre, this is Aemond Targaryen. Remember."

The dragon turned one eye on Aemond, blinking slowly, as he had done with Katarina earlier that day. "Now you can approach him; he will be docile as a pup."

Aemond walked forward slowly and laid his hand on Darkfyre's long neck. The dragon just snorted and looked towards the clouds, ignoring them. "You've trained him well," Aemond said to Quentyn. "I wish Meraxes were half as well behaved."

"Fetch him," Quentyn said, pointing towards the clouds. They were almost to the city; the depths of the thunderheads lit up periodically with silent flashes of lightning. "The weather is getting good, and I want to catch the beginnings of the storm."

"Gladly," Aemond said with a smile. "One moment." He strode forward and shouted to the men in front of the door. The guards grasped the long bronze handles of the door and heaved, slowly pulling it open. Smoke issued from the widening gap; inside, the Dragonpit was dark, but Quentyn could see massive shapes moving about in the gloom. Darkfyre turned his attention to the door, his nostrils widening as he took in the scent of the other dragons.

When the gap was wide enough, Aemond strode through into the Dragonpit. A roar sounded from within when he entered, and Quentyn could hear him calling to his dragon. "Meraxes! To me!" he shouted.

The guards finished opening the doors. They were wide enough for thirty mounded knights to ride through abreast, with room to spare. All was quiet for a moment, and then Meraxes shot through the doors and into the sky, Aemond whooping on his back. Meraxes was a deep green chased with streaks of white; the fading sunlight falling through the translucent membranes of his wings painted the cobbles below the color of a forest floor at midday. Unlike Darkfyre, Meraxes wore an iron bridle, long chains running back along his neck, with Aemond grasping their ends to steer the dragon. Meraxes was large, but Darkfyre was still bigger by a good third.

Meraxes looped upward, gaining altitude. Quentyn scrambled up onto Darkfyre's back and shouted, "After them!" Darkfyre launched himself into the air, quickly catching the smaller dragon. They sniffed noses as they flew higher, spiraling around one another. Aemond and Quentyn both laughed, smiling at each other across the open air. "To the storm!" Quentyn shouted to his brother, pointing.

Darkfyre heard him, and banked towards the clouds. Aemond pulled a chain, turning Meraxes's head, and followed them into the thunderheads. The wind hit them as they entered the clouds, buffeting them and slowing the dragons slightly. Stinging rain was falling, quickly drenching the two princes.

On deeper into the storm they flew, the dragons dancing around one another, snapping at each others' tails playfully as they passed through the mountainous thunderheads. Lightning forked between them, driving them apart; the dragons answered the storm with twin jets of flame, the black fire from Darkfyre's maw mingling with the green and white flames of Meraxes in the air. "To the water!" Quentyn shouted, and Darkfyre dove straight down; Meraxes followed with a roar.

The two dragons burst through the clouds, headed towards the foam capped waves below. They had flown a few miles out over the bay, and the deep water was black, reflecting the angry clouds above it. Darkfyre snapped his wings open just above the water, leveling off; the spray of the sea licked at Quentyn's feet like cold fire. Meraxes was a few hundred yards above them, following behind. Quentyn could hear Aemond whooping with joy.

The storm was fierce; wind whipped in cyclones around the dragons, pushing them through the air. Rain fell in torrents, and lightning lit the sea with brilliant white bursts. The roar of the thunder was a constant sound. Quentyn was the happiest he had been since arriving in King's Landing. _This is what I was born to do,_ he thought joyously.

A large wave loomed in front of Darkfyre. The dragon folded his wings and drove through it like an arrow, emerging in a spray of salt water out the back, snapping his wings open again. Quentyn sputtered and wiped sea water from his eyes.

When he could open them again, Quentyn whooped loudly himself; there, a few hundred yards in front of them, was a large warship, black as midnight. Its prow was shaped like a dragon with its wings outstretched, roaring its defiance to the surf in front of it. The sails were black as jet, emblazoned with the towering sigil of House Targaryen. It was identical to the other ships of Quentyn's Dragonfleet; his men had arrived.

Darkfyre angled upward, clearing the tall mast of the ship by a hand's breadth. Below on the decks, Quentyn could see more than a dozen men in the garb of his Black Dragons running around, tending the lines and the sails. All his Dragons were highly trained sailors; fifty men crewed each of the ships in his fleet. Ser Daemon Targaryen himself stood at the helm, a hand on the wheel; he lifted the other in greeting as Quentyn flew by overhead. Quentyn returned the wave, smiling broadly. _Thank the Seven for this sight_, he thought happily.

Quentyn shouted a command to Darkfyre, and the dragon flew upward to Meraxes. The green dragon was hovering above the ship, flapping his strong wings to keep altitude. When Quentyn was near enough, Aemond shouted, "Is that one of yours?"

"Indeed!" Quentyn shouted back. "Let us escort them into port!"

"Gladly!" Aemond replied. He pulled Meraxes's chains, turning the dragon towards shore. "Darkfyre, follow!" Quentyn yelled to his dragon. Darkfyre fell in beside Meraxes, and together the dragons flew above the ship as it made its way across Blackwater Bay to King's Landing.


	8. Chapter 8

The storm reached King's Landing with the ship. The water around the docks was churning, waves pounding against the shore, but the experienced sailors of the Black Dragons had little trouble bringing the ship alongside one of the wooden wharves jutting out into the bay. A few men leapt down to the dock, trailing ropes in their hands, and swiftly tied the ship down. Others were busy raising the sails and lashing them in place against the poles of the masts. Two men lifted a long gangplank and set it between the deck of the ship and the dock below.

Darkfyre and Meraxes circled above the ship. Quentyn was pleased at the efficiency of his men; he expected no less from them, but it was still good to see the results of their rigorous training.

Darkfyre was handling the strong winds of the storm with ease; he had grown up flying in the harsh weather of Dragonstone, and this was a small squall compared to the hurricanes that sometimes came off the Narrow Sea. Meraxes, however, was having difficulties, and Aemond was struggling to keep control of the dragon. "I am returning to the Dragonpit!" Aemond shouted to Quentyn. "Meet me at the Keep; father wants us to dine with him tonight!"

"I shall! Fly safe!" Quentyn shouted back. Aemond pulled Meraxes's head about, and flew back towards the city.

"Darkfyre, land!" Quentyn shouted. The black dragon slowly descended to the shore next to the wharf, landing in the wet sand. Quentyn jumped from his back, barely keeping his feet.

Fifty of his men had left the ship, and were marching five abreast in perfect rows down onto the beach. They were clad in the garb of the Black Dragons: black leather covered them from neck to toe, unadorned and unmarked, save for the sigil of House Targaryen stitched in red thread over their right breast. Ser Daemon walked at the head of the column; as second-in-command, his uniform bore a silver hand stitched opposite the dragon.

Quentyn met the column at the edge of the dock. His men clapped a hand to their breasts and knelt in unison, bowing their heads. Quentyn clapped Daemon on the shoulder. "Rise!" he commanded. The Black Dragons stood, again in unison; Daemon rose as well, smiling at the prince. "What a welcome we received; two dragons escorting us into port!" the knight said. Quentyn laughed and gave his cousin a short embrace. "It is good to see you, ser," he said. "It feels like I have been away two years, not two days."

"It is good to see you as well, my prince. Dragonstone has been less interesting with you and Darkfyre gone," Daemon replied. "Your armor and clothing are on board the ship, as well as our horses and supplies. It will take some time to unload them."

"I must leave you to it, then; the king has requested my presence at dinner," Quentyn said with a slight frown. He did not like leaving his men to work in a storm, but he needed to make amends with his father, and ignoring a summons to dinner was not the best way to begin that process. "When you arrive at the Red Keep, tell the guards you are my men, and I want you stationed in the barracks in Maegor's Holdfast. You are to be brought as much food and drink as you require, your horses are to be stabled, and my items are to be delivered to my chambers."

"As you say, my prince," Daemon replied. "We shall want to rest once we have eaten; I will see you on the morrow. We need to train before the tournament, I think." He said the last with a wink. Quentyn smiled ruefully; the last time he and Daemon had sparred, Daemon had defeated him. It was only the fifth time it had happened, but the memory still stung slightly. "Certainly, cousin. I need to repay you for the bruises you left me last time." Daemon chuckled at that.

Quentyn clapped his cousin on the shoulder once more before turning and striding back towards Darkfyre. Behind him, he could hear Daemon issuing commands in the clipped voice he used on the battlefield.

The prince climbed onto Darkfyre's back and shouted, "The Red Keep!" Darkfyre swept into the sky and quickly crossed the city, settling down a few minutes later to the cobbles of the Keep. Quentyn climbed down carefully this time; a slip on the cobbles could mean broken bones. He walked along the dragon's neck; Darkfyre lowered his head, looking at the prince with one of his massive eyes. "Go find somewhere dry to roost," Quentyn told him, scratching the scales of the dragon's cheek. Darkfyre snorted and jumped back into the sky, circling higher before flying across the Keep towards the kingswood. Quentyn watched him go for a moment, before turning and walking towards Maegor's Holdfast.

Once inside the castle, Quentyn took a moment to smooth this hair and wipe the water from his leather clothes. They were waterproof, thankfully, and he was mostly dry by the time he reached the door to his father's solar at the top of the castle. He knocked twice, announcing his presence. "Ah, Quentyn! Come in!" King Viserys shouted. Quentyn pulled open the door and entered the solar.

The torches were burning in their brackets along the walls of the solar. A merry fire crackled in the hearth; the room was quite warm. Viserys sat at the head of the table, in the same spot as the day before when Quentyn had intruded on the small council meeting. The seat to his right was empty; Aemond sat to his left. Daenerys sat next to the empty seat; she was smiling at her prince. He returned her smile before looking across the other faces at the table.

Quentyn's heart sped up when he recognized the other guests. Lord Jon Stark sat next to Aemond on the left of the table; next to him sat his son Tohrren. Brandon Stark sat across from Tohrren, to the right of Daenerys. Rhaenyra sat at the foot of the table, her back to her brother.

Katarina was not in the room; for that, Quentyn was thankful. Much as he longed to see her again, he knew it would only bring trouble. _Harden your heart_, he scolded himself. _Go sit next to your betrothed, and comport yourself as a prince should._

Quentyn bowed low. "Father, Lord Jon. Greetings. I hope I have not kept you waiting; a ship arrived from Dragonstone, and I wanted to greet my men in person."

"It's nothing, my prince," Lord Jon replied. "We have been here but a moment, and it is a good commander who treats his men with respect." Quentyn nodded. "Thank you, my lord."

"Come, sit," Viserys said, waving to the seat next to him. Quentyn walked around the table and sat next to Daenerys.

"Lord Jon, will your daughter be joining us this evening?" the king asked. Quentyn's heart sped up again, but Daenerys laid her hand on his, reminding him to master himself. _Even if she does come, I must not make a fool of myself._

"No, Your Grace. Katarina begs your pardon; the trip south has left her weary, and she wished to remain in her chambers and rest." _Seven be praised._

Quentyn cleared his throat and turned to the king. "Father, I beg your pardon for my behavior yesterday. I acted as a fool, and I ask your forgiveness." Viserys just waved a hand, smiling. "It is forgotten," he said. "I have come to expect headstrong behaviors from my sons; Aegon is still being confined to his chambers, refusing to cease his ranting about inheritances and the future of the realm." Rhaenyra chuckled at this, lifting a goblet to her lips. Quentyn nodded. "Thank you." Aemond nodded at him across the table, a slight smile touching his lips.

Servants filed into the room, bearing plates of food. Quentyn stuck to meats and vegetables; there were richer delicacies at the table, but he still found them too cloying for his taste. The fare on Dragonstone was confined to what came from the sea, along with meat he hunted from Darkfyre's back as they flew over the coastal forests near the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Quentyn was an excellent shot with a bow, and kept his cellars stocked with venison and boar. When a servant brought a flagon of wine to fill the prince's cup, he waved it away, asking for water instead. He could see Aemond smile at that.

"So, Prince Quentyn," Lord Jon said, "His Grace was telling me earlier about your Black Dragons. He says they are the finest fighting force in the entire kingdom."

"My father is kind," Quentyn replied. "It is true my men are exceptionally trained, and have proven themselves a formidable foe."

"And where did they prove this? The kingdom has been at peace since the reign of King Jaehaerys; there have been no wars to fight for over a hundred years."

Viserys chuckled. "No wars in Westeros, you mean. We have had foreign enemies before, until they were dealt with."

"I should very much like to hear this story," Brandon Stark said. His brother Tohrren nodded in agreement. "Yes, please, Your Grace. All the war stories these days are stale."

Quentyn was growing tense. He did not like to think about the red wastes. "The details are a closely guarded secret, my lords. The only people who know of the war at all are my father, my men, and myself, and even my father has no knowledge of the details."

"Bah. I despise secrets," the king said. "Leave those to Lord Strong. The war is two years done; a few more people knowing of it will do no harm." Quentyn forced himself to nod. _I do not like where this conversation is leading._

Viserys cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair. "Two years ago, Lord Strong received word of a large slave army massing in the far east, in Slaver's Bay. His spies in the cities told him they meant to march west, to sack Pentos, and then sail across the Narrow Sea to Westeros, to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. According to Lord Strong's intelligence, the army numbered in the hundreds of thousands; slaves, mind you, not soldiers, but if those numbers were true, we could not hope to stand against them if they reached Westeros.

"I had no desire to call our banners and send the majority of the men in the kingdom across the sea. It seemed folly to me; we had had peace for so long, I was not even certain we would be ready in time. I knew of only one standing army in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms: the Black Dragons of Dragonstone. Unblooded, yes, but trained by my son here, who mastered the sword to a higher degree than anyone had seen at the tender age of twelve. I would have named him to my Kingsguard, had I been a crueler man."

Everyone at the table laughed at this; everyone but Quentyn, that is. "The Kingsguard would have been a kinder fate than what I endured overseas, Your Grace," he said, his voice hard. Viserys just chuckled. "Quentyn, why don't you tell us what occurred? I have been yearning to hear that tale ever since you sent word of your victory."

"I would rather not, Your Grace," Quentyn said. He had no wish to relive the months he had spent across the sea; living them once had been nightmare enough.

Viserys drank from his goblet, a thin stream of wine running down his chin. "Oh, bugger that!" the king said, laughing. "Regale our guests with your heroism; your king commands it!"

_He's drunk_, Quentyn realized, _and it will be hell to pay if he does not get what he wants. Yet another distasteful task I must endure_. Quentyn had a sour taste in his mouth; he waved over the servant he had dismissed before. The servant filled his cup with wine; he drank deeply. Aemond looked worried, but the prince was beyond caring.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said. He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in front of him, and began to speak.

"I received a raven on Dragonstone from the king. It said a deserter of the Night's Watch was being sent by boat to Dragonstone, to deliver an important and very secret message. The letter gave no hint as to what this message was, but did inform me that I was expected to behead the deserter once the message had been delivered. I was nine-and-ten, and had never killed a man before; the prospect frightened me, but I was eager to hear this message my father deemed too important to share with anyone but me. I was young in mind, and a fool.

"True to the letter, two days later a ship made port on Dragonstone's shore. It stayed only long enough to throw the deserter onto the shore, bound in chains, before it departed. I had the man brought before me in my hall. He told me my father had received word of a massive army of slaves, bound for Westeros, and I was expected to take my Black Dragons across the Narrow Sea and defeat them before they could sail. When I asked the man how large the slave force was, he cackled at me like a madman. 'Thousands,' he told me, 'hundreds of thousands. You will die far from home, whelp.'

"I took the man outside and had him held down. I drew my sword and cut off his head. It was my first kill, but I found it felt good.

"I saw no reason to wait; I knew the king would not respond to any ravens I sent, and would be furious if I dared put this secret in writing. What he expected of me, I knew not, but I gathered my men and told them we were sailing to war across the sea. I had ten thousand sworn swords, the same as now, and just as well trained; they did not hesitate, but began preparing the Dragonfleet. We set sail with two hundred and fifty ships three days later. I flew above them on Darkfyre, who was large even then.

"We reached Pentos three days later. We were met on the shore by a magister, who's name I have forgotten. The man gave us more details; he told us the slaves were marching west from Astapor, towards Pentos. He told us if we marched quickly, we could meet them in a place he called the 'red wastes.' And he told us their forces numbered two hundred thousand strong.

"We despaired. Who would not, knowing ten thousand men were to face two hundred thousand? The odds seemed insurmountable; I thought my father had sent me away to die, alone and far from home. But we had a duty to do, and so we marched. Two weeks later, we arrived at the quite aptly named red wastes, and faced a gargantuan horde of slaves of all shapes and colors. Some wore patched armor, some wore only cloth between their legs, but all were armed, and all were howling for blood.

"Emissaries were sent from both sides. Both of us built fortifications around our camps; we dug trenches, and piled the dirt to make crude walls, and hammered stakes into the trenches. It was the best we could do in that barren waste. There was barely any water or food to be found, so it was fortunate we came well-provisioned from Pentos; I still have nightmares about what might have happened, had we not been so fully supplied.

"There was a mile between us and them. A mile of dead, empty, red dirt, baked to rock hardness by the sun. Our vanguards met in the center. I fought in the front of my army; Darkfyre was too prime a target for their archers, so he stayed back, only attacking to burn any attempt to take our flanks before retreating out of range.

"It was a bloodbath. They had overwhelming numbers, but they were slaves, not warriors; my vanguard and I went through them like a hot knife through butter. I cannot count how many men fell beneath Shadowrend's blade that day. We lost men, but for every Dragon felled, we took thirty slaves with him. All through the day we fought, until the battlefield was choked with their corpses. They retreated with the setting sun.

"Though we killed many on that first day, we made but a dent in their numbers. Every day, we met to fight; every day, we slaughtered them in droves. For the first week, it seemed victory was inevitable; no slave could stand before a Black Dragon. We were far superior in arms, we wore armor, and we fought as a unit, rotating fresh men when the ones on the front lines grew weary. Darkfyre protected our flanks with his fire. We lost few, and killed thousands. By night, I would ride Darkfyre over the battlefield, setting fire to the corpses and allowing him to feast on their flesh. It is the only time I have ever allowed this, Darkfyre only eats wild animals, but it terrified the slavers to see a dragon eating their dead.

"As the days wore by, however, weariness began to settle in. We started suffering more losses, as my mens' arms grew weary and the relentless sun took its toll. When the month ended, we had lost half our men, our supplies were dwindling, and the sun had taken the spirit out of those of us who were left. In thirty days, I had not left the front lines, and I was half mad with weariness. That evening at sundown, I prayed to the Seven for a respite; something, anything, to allow us to end this war.

"The Warrior must have heard my prayer; that night, a great storm blew in from the north, the first clouds we had seen since leaving Westeros. The clouds darkened the night to a pitch-black, and rain fell in torrents. It was the perfect opportunity.

"We attacked their camp in the dark. For the first time in the war I rode Darkfyre, and we rained black flame on them from above. Once their camp was ablaze, I joined my men on the ground and led the rout. A bare ten thousand remained of the slaves, with their masters hiding behind them. We slaughtered them all. No man was left alive.

"All of us were wounded. It took us another month to make our way back to Pentos. We rested there for a time, and sailed back to Dragonstone. The ships had to operate under half crew, and it was slow going, but we made it home without another loss. That is the story, Your Grace. That is the war you sent me to fight, against twenty to one odds. That is how me and mine slew every man of an army the likes of which Westeros has never seen. _That_ is the story of my heroism. Does it please you?"

The room was silent. Everyone at the table was staring raptly at Quentyn. Aemond's mouth hung open; so did the king's. Finally, Viserys cleared his throat. "I had no idea," the king said. "I thought the estimates of their numbers had been overcounted. If I had known..."

Quentyn waved his hand. "It is done," he said, his voice flat. He swallowed the wine that was left in his glass, holding it out to be refilled. "Stay," he growled at the servant when his cup was full; he drained it, and held it out again.

"My prince, your feat is worthy of a thousand songs," Lord Jon said, awe in his voice. "I have never heard such a tale before in my life. Ten thousand against twenty times that number...your Black Dragons are indeed the most incredible force in Westeros. I commend you most highly on their training."

"Thank you, Lord Jon, you honor me," Quentyn replied, draining his glass yet again.

Daenerys put her arm through his, twining their fingers together. "You are truly a hero, my prince," she said, gazing up at him.

"I should like to try myself against one of your men sometime," Brandon stated, leaning forward. "They sound most formidable; it would be an honor to cross blades with a Black Dragon."

"You will likely get your chance, my lord," Quentyn told him. "Ser Daemon Targaryen, my second-in-command, and two of our finest swordsmen will be entering the tournament. And I myself, of course."

"It is said no man in Westeros can best you with a blade," Tohrren said.

Quentyn chuckled darkly. "Not quite true, I am afraid; Ser Daemon has defeated me a few times before. Now, if you will excuse me, my lords, I have suddenly found myself quite weary." He turned to the king. "With your leave, father, I wish to retire to my chambers."

"Of course," Viserys replied.

Quentyn rose and nodded to the guests, then pushed his chair back and strode out the door. Once outside, he broke into a jog, down the stairs and to his chambers. He threw the door wide and stalked across the room to the wall. Scowling deeply, he smashed a fist into the stone; he barely felt the skin on his knuckles split.

The prince whirled and walked back to the door, shouting for a servant. A young girl in a roughspun tunic ran up the hall to him. "Wine, Myrish, strong," he spat at her. "A small cask and a goblet. If it is not here in two minutes, I will put your head on a spike along the wall of the Red Keep." The girl turned and sprinted back down the hallway.

Quentyn pulled his door shut and sat down on the end of his bed. He pulled off his gloves and boots, tossing them in a corner; his split knuckles slowly dripped blood onto the carpet. Quentyn didn't care. He unclasped his cloak, tossing it aside; he unlaced his jerkin, throwing that too. He sat in naught but his pants and his swordbelt, staring at the blood falling from his hand, trying to get control of himself.

The serving girl entered a moment later, hurriedly setting the cask and goblet on Quentyn's table. She started to leave, but Quentyn called, "Wait." The girl looked back, clearly frightened. "I am sorry," Quentyn said, still staring at the floor. "I should not have threatened you. Pray, forgive me."

"Of course, my prince," the girl said, curtsying quickly before hurrying out the door. Quentyn got off the bed and crossed the room to the wine. He pulled off his swordbelt, hanging it on a peg, and uncorked the cask. He poured himself a cup, drained it, and poured another.

A knock came at the door. "Leave me be," Quentyn growled, draining his glass and pouring again. "It's me," Daenerys called through the door. "May I come in?"

Quentyn sighed. "Yes," he said. Daenerys eased the door open and slipped through, shutting it behind her. "Are you okay?" she asked him. She looked genuinely worried. "I'm fine," Quentyn replied, swaying on his feet.

Daenerys noticed the blood dripping from his fingertips. "You're hurt," she said, crossing the room quickly. She took his hand and inspected the knuckles. Then, surprising Quentyn, she bent down and tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress. She took his hand again and bound his knuckles, staunching the blood. "Thank you," Quentyn murmured.

Daenerys led him across the room to his bed. They sat together, his hand still in hers. "Telling that story upset you," she said to him, worry in her eyes. "Yes, it did," he replied. "It is an awful memory, and I relive it often in my dreams; I have no desire to visit it while waking as well."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "If I may ask, my prince...you said you took a wound in the war. Where were you wounded?" Quentyn chuckled slightly and stood, turning around. "There," he said, and he heard Daenerys gasp.

A long, ropy scar stretched from Quentyn's right shoulder to his left hip. It was thick and dark, the remnant of a vicious wound. "A slave got behind me, and slashed me across the back," Quentyn said. "I killed him for it. And I killed the man behind him, and the one after that. I fought on for three more hours, killing men, with hot blood flowing down my back all the while. One of my men heated his sword in Darkfyre's breath that night and laid it on the wound to clean it, then stitched me up. That was two weeks into the fighting."

"Gods above," Daenerys whispered as Quentyn sat again. "That's awful...I am so sorry, Quentyn. I shouldn't have asked."

Quentyn chuckled again. "You would have seen it anyway, at some point," he said sullenly. Daenerys did not reply, but turned his face towards her and kissed him, hard. Quentyn returned the kiss, pulling her face into his. She ran a hand down the front of his chest, reaching between his legs.

The prince pulled back. "I told you already, your Myrish woman's tricks must wait until we are wed," Quentyn told her.

Daenerys looked away, her cheeks reddening. "There is no Myrish woman," she said shyly. "I thought if I told you that, it would make me seem more desirable, and you might like me more. I am truly just an innocent maid."

Quentyn felt touched. _She truly wants only for me to love her, _he thought drunkenly to himself. He kissed the soft skin of her throat; Daenerys shivered slightly at the touch of his lips. "You are most desirable already, Daenerys," he whispered against her neck. He kissed her again, and again, up the side of her neck to her earlobe. Daenerys wound her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers.

They fell back onto the bed, their kisses growing hot. Quentyn ran a hand along Daenerys's leg to her hip; she unlaced the front of his breeches, reaching inside. The prince's other hand cupped one of her breasts; he brushed his thumb across her nipple, feeling it harden beneath his touch. She moaned softly into his mouth.

Daenerys tugged at his breeches, pulling them down to his knees. She took his manhood in her hand and stroked, making him groan. He moved his hand from her hip to the soft spot between her legs, massaging gently. He could feel her growing wet beneath his fingers. She moaned again, tugging at his hair, her tongue in his mouth. Quentyn moved her smallclothes aside and slid a finger inside her; she pushed her hips up to meet his hand, her stroking growing faster.

Daenerys bit down on his shoulder when she reached her climax, her teeth denting his skin. She released him and he rolled to his back; she lay her head on his chest, panting. "That...was amazing," she gasped. Quentyn did not reply; he was very drunk, and the ceiling was spinning above him. "I need...I need to sleep," he said, his words slurring.

Daenerys kissed him. "May I share your bed tonight, my prince?" she asked tentatively. He looked at her, frowning, and she chuckled. "Just to sleep, I promise. I am as tired as you are. _I doubt that,_ he thought to himself, but he nodded.

Daenerys stood and removed her gown, stripping down to her shift. Quentyn remained on the bed, but pulled his breeches the rest of the way off and tossed them on the pile of clothes in the corner of his room. Together, they slid under the blankets; Daenerys snuggled her back against his chest, sighing contentedly.

Quentyn stroked her hair as he waited for sleep to claim him. Unbidden, his mind turned to Katarina; try as he might, he could not stop himself. He had missed her presence at the dinner; he thought about their time in the godswood that morning, the way her arm felt in his, the softness of her lips upon his cheek when she kissed him.

_I wish this hair I was stroking were brown, and not silver_, he thought as his eyes closed.


	9. Chapter 9

Quentyn awoke for the second day in a row with a thundering headache. He groaned, clutching his head. _Never again,_ he vowed, knowing he would likely break his word if he had to spend much longer in the capital.

Daenerys stirred next to him, startling him; he had forgotten she was there. She rolled over, smiling at him sleepily. "Good morning, my prince," she said, yawning.

"It is morning, yes; whether it is a good one or not is debatable," Quentyn replied with another groan. "My head feels like Darkfyre stepped on it."

Daenerys sat up. "Too much wine last night?" she giggled. "Wait here, I will go get you some breakfast and some water. That should help you feel better." She climbed out of the bed and pulled her gown back on, cinching the cloth belt. She walked to the door and called for a servant.

Quentyn rolled out of his bed and pulled on his breeches. He could barely lace the front of the pants; as soon as they were secure, he collapsed back onto the bed, throwing a forearm across his eyes.

The servant returned soon, with a plate laden with crisp bacon, boiled potatoes, and a fresh loaf of bread. A flagon of cool water accompanied the meal. "Your breakfast is here, Quentyn," Daenerys called to him as the servant set the dish on his table. Quentyn struggled to his feet and stumbled across the room, collapsing in the chair and attacking the food. Daenerys massaged his shoulders as he ate; it felt good, and he was feeling much better after he finished eating.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" Daenerys asked him as he pulled on the rest of his clothes. "I need to spar," Quentyn replied, striding to a chest that had been placed in the corner of his room. "I have not practiced with a blade in three days; if I am to win the tournament tomorrow, I must be honed sharper than Shadowrend."

Quentyn opened the chest. His armor lay on top of a pile of his leather clothes. Quentyn had always shunned the full heavy plate many knights wore; though it gave better protection, it diminished a swordsman's speed and range of motion, and the prince preferred to be able to move. He felt better dodging a strike than taking one and trusting armor to defend his body.

The prince's armor was of his own design, forged by his smith on Dragonstone. The smith was descended from Old Valyria; he knew how to fold steel to make it lighter and stronger, though he did not know the full process for making Valyrian weapons. Those secrets had died with Valyria in the Doom. His breastplate was black steel, thin but strong; it could stop an arrow or a sword thrust, but weighed less than a shirt of mail. It had a collar of stiff leather covered in silver scales to protect his neck. He had individual plates of black steel for his upper arms; they had leather straps to hold them on. The same went for his legs; greaves and thigh plates replaced the full encasing favored by most warriors, leaving his legs unobstructed but well protected. For his hands, he had gauntlets of black steel, the tips of the fingers ending in sharp claws, to serve as extra weapons should he be forced to fight hand-to-hand. Vambraces were attached to the wrists of the gauntlets to protect his forearms. Quentyn wore no helm; they limited his vision, and weighed on his neck. He trusted his skill and agility to protect him, and so far, no enemy had ever touched him above the neck, not even Daemon.

Quentyn put his armor on over his leathers, stretching to make sure it was properly fastened. He barely felt like he was wearing armor at all. Daenerys smiled when she saw him. "My prince looks so fierce," she said, crossing the room to him and kissing him on the cheek.

Quentyn returned the smile as he buckled on an empty swordbelt. "I will be away for the day, I think," he told her as he fastened his cloak about his shoulders. "Sparring is a long process if I am to do it right, and I really must practice."

"Of course," Daenerys replied. "Will I see you this evening?"

"Perhaps," Quentyn said as he headed for the door. "Good day, Daenerys."

"Good day, Quentyn," she called after him as he walked through the door and down the hallway.

Quentyn was regretting what they had done the night before. _I need to stop drinking so much, or I will end up getting her with child before we are even married,_ he thought as he walked down the stairs. His headache was mostly gone, but he had not slept well, and his mood was foul. He was looking forward to an opportunity to fight someone with skill, to release some of the tension in his neck. _Daemon had best be ready to fight._

He was. When Quentyn entered the barracks along the wall of Maegor's Holdfast, Daemon and two knights of the Black Dragons were already fully armored and selecting blunted swords for the day's training. The armor of the Black Dragons was much like their usual uniforms: black and unadorned, made of the same folded steel plate Quentyn wore. They were fully encased, however; pauldrons on their shoulders, gorgets for their necks, full plate on their arms and legs, and helms wrought in the shape of snarling dragon heads. They bore black kite shields emblazoned with the red dragon of Targaryen.

The men knelt when Quentyn entered, and rose at his command. Daemon tossed him a sword, which Quentyn caught deftly by the handle; it was wrought in the same shape and size of Shadowrend, but the blade was silver and unsharpened. "I took the liberty of packing your training sword," Daemon chuckled. "I figured you would want to hit something after being in a crowded city for two days, and besides, I do not believe you can wield Shadowrend in a tournament." Quentyn laughed. "You were right on both counts. Come; we can use the arena to train in, to get a good measure of our footing for tomorrow."

The four of them left the barracks and crossed the drawbridge into the Red Keep. The courtyard was full of men in armor, saddling horses, and riding out into the city. The men were from all parts of the Seven Kingdoms; Quentyn spied the leaping fish of House Tully, the stag of the Baratheons, the stallion of the Brackens, the red castle of the Redforts, the two towers of the Freys, the roaring giant of the Umbers, the white tower of the Hightowers, the grapes of the Redwynes, the boar of the Crakehalls, the falcon of the Arryns, and many more besides. It seemed all the noble houses of Westeros had converged upon King's Landing for his father's great tournament.

Quentyn and his men threaded their way through the crowd to the stables. There, they saddled four of the horses his men had brought from Dragonstone, but when they attempted to make their way towards the gate out of the Red Keep, they were caught in the throng of warriors trying to do the same. Quentyn was beginning to grow impatient when Daemon put a black horn to his lips, and let loose with a mighty blast that silenced the courtyard.

"_Make way for Prince Quentyn Wildfire, Lord of Dragonstone and Prince of the Seven Kingdoms!_" the knight bellowed. The crowd parted before them, many of the men bowing to Quentyn as he rode through the gap, Daemon and the two knights following him.

"That wasn't necessary," Quentyn said once they were clear of the Keep and on open road. Daemon just laughed. "It would have been evening before we got through that crowd. You are the prince; it's not like I was cutting men down to clear a lane for you." Quentyn smiled at that as they rode through King's Landing towards the King's Gate; he was glad to have Daemon with him in the city.

The King's Gate was located at the southwest end of King's Landing. The River Row led from Aegon's High Hill to the gate; it was a massive structure of wood and iron, with a sally port above it to stymie any assaults coming from outside the walls. Directly outside lay the tournament grounds.

The tourney field was full of men training, the sound of crashing steel echoing through the grounds. Quentyn and the Dragons threaded their way through groups of fighting men. Many stopped to watch them warily; the reputation of the Black Dragons was well known. Quentyn did not want to train where everyone could watch, and scout his men; he gestured, and the knights followed him to the far side of the tourney grounds, to the great fighting pit.

When King Viserys was young, he and his father had visited Meereen, a city in Slaver's Bay far to the east. His father had wished to impress upon Viserys the evils of slavery; however, the young king had fallen in love with the fighting pits of the city, where slaves did battle to the death as massive crowds roared for blood. While Viserys had no love for slavery, he had taken to the idea of single combat tournaments, and so he had ordered the construction of the deep fighting pit on the eastern rim of the tournament grounds. The pit was some hundred feet deep and three hundred feet across, with rows of seats circling the walls, and a large shaded box for the nobility to sit and watch the battles. The floor of the pit was hard clay covered in a thin layer of sand to provide better footing. Quentyn had seen a tournament held in the pit, before he left to Dragonstone; two men entered, with their weapon of choice, and did battle until one man yielded or was incapacitated. His father loved it far more than the joust or the melee.

Thankfully, the pit was empty; Quentyn and his men dismounted and descended the steep steps towards the fighting arena. The seats ended ten feet above the floor of the pit, with a sheer wall circling the arena. There was a ladder set into the wall; Quentyn climbed down first, followed by Daemon and the knights. The floor of the pit was slightly warm from the sun, the sand giving excellent footing.

They walked to the center of the pit and faced each other, drawing their swords. "So, who shall be first?" Daemon said with a smile.

Quentyn smiled back at him. "You and I have a score to settle," he said, settling into a ready stance, both hands on his sword. Daemon donned his helm, then hefted his shield and rolled his sword back over his wrist in a flourish. "Come and find your retribution then, my prince," he said, his words muffled by the snarling dragonshead helm. The other two knights backed off, giving them space.

They circled each other, looking for an opening. Quentyn was faster, he knew, but Daemon was better armored, and moved quick despite the weight of his plate. Without warning, Quentyn faked to the right and spun on his heel, bringing his sword in a whistling downward slash to Daemon's left side. The knight caught the blow on his shield and lunged, the tip of his sword headed for Quentyn's face. The prince ducked, the blade whistling over his head, and spun back to the right, his sword smashing into the side of Daemon's right knee. Daemon buckled momentarily, but rose back to his feet quickly, dancing away from Quentyn's next strike.

They danced for over an hour, trading blows with lightning speed. Quentyn struck Daemon twice more; a stab to the armpit that made the knight's left arm go limp, and a ringing blow to the side of his helm. Daemon fought on, however, never showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

Finally, Daemon lunged forward in an awkwardly timed jab, his first real mistake of the fight; it was all the opening Quentyn needed. He parried the blow, turning the parry into a spin that wrenched Daemon's sword from his hand, and sent it flying across the pit to land point-first in the dirt thirty feet away. Daemon fell to his knees with the point of Quentyn's sword resting on the collar of his breastplate.

The knight pulled off his helm; his hair was slick with sweat, his face red. "Well fought, my prince," he panted. "I yield; you have bested me." Quentyn helped Daemon to his feet and grasped his forearm. "You grow more skilled each time we fight, ser," he said. "You will catch up to me soon enough."

Quentyn turned to the other two knights, who were standing back from the prince and Daemon, their hands clasped behind their backs. "Which of you wishes to be next?" he called, spinning his sword.

"It would be my honor, my prince," one knight said, stepping forward. He was a burly man, with short black hair coming together in a widow's peak on his forehead. A beard covered his face; his neck and arms were thick with muscle.

"What is your name, ser?" Quentyn asked the knight as they approached each other. "Edric Baratheon, my prince," the knight replied, pulling on his helm and settling his shield. Quentyn nodded to Ser Edric, then lunged forward, swinging his sword in a tight arc at the snout of the knight's helm.

The parry came so quickly that it took the prince off guard; Edric took the moment of confusion to sweep his sword back around, the blunt blade whistling towards Quentyn's temple. The prince barely had time to lean back, the blade skimming the tip of his nose as it passed by overhead. _That was close,_ Quentyn thought, jumping back and settling into his stance. _I shall have to be wary; this man is dangerous_.

And dangerous he was. Ser Edric followed up the attack, raining blow after blow on the prince. Quentyn gave ground, parrying the blows, on the defensive for the first time in as long as he could remember. Try as he might, he could not disengage from the knight's attack, and the blows he managed to return were batted aside.

Finally, the prince grew frustrated; he ducked under a high blow and spun low, using his leg to sweep Edric's feet out from under him. As the knight fell, Quentyn continued the motion, twisting back to his feet and delivering a vicious overhand blow to the center of the knight's breastplate while he was still falling. The force of the blow slammed the knight into the dirt, his helm falling off, his sword flying from his hand. Edric wheezed, coughing, looking up at the prince.

Quentyn held out a hand; the knight grasped it, and Quentyn pulled him to his feet. "You are quite the swordsman, Ser Edric Baratheon," Quentyn told him with a rueful smile. "I have not been forced to use that attack in years. Well fought, indeed; I see Daemon brought the best of the Black Dragons to bring honor to our company."

Edric knelt. "Thank you, my prince. You honor me." Quentyn chuckled. "Yes, I do," he said, pulling the knight back to his feet. "Go, spar with your fellow for a round. I wish to see you fight when your sword is not in my face."

Ser Edric and the other Dragon squared up in the middle of the arena. Daemon stepped up next to Quentyn. "They have fought together many times before," he told the prince. "This should be an excellent bout."

It was. The two knights attacked each other, swords ringing throughout the pit. Their blows were fast; at times, Quentyn had difficulty tracking the swords. Neither knight could gain the upper hand on the other; they drove each other back and forth across the arena, never missing a step or a block. Finally, Ser Edric managed to strike the other knight hard on the wrist, forcing him to lose his grip and drop his sword. Before Edric could land another blow, however, the knight kicked Edric hard in the chest, sending him sprawling. While Edric was regaining his feet, the other man grabbed his sword from the ground, and the battle continued.

Finally, Quentyn called, "Halt!" Both knights stopped midswing and dropped to their knees, gasping for breath. Quentyn strode over to them, clapping them both on the shoulders. "That was a fight I shall not soon forget," he laughed. "You, ser, what is your name?"

The knight removed his helm, revealing auburn hair and a freckled face. "Ser Edwin Tully, my prince," he said, bowing his head. "Rise, Ser Edwin Tully. You and Ser Edric are incredible swordsmen; I am proud to have the two of you representing the Black Dragons."

"Do you know what's frightening?" Daemon said as the knights rose. "These two are the best, but not by a wide margin. All ten thousand of your swordsmen are that skilled. They've improved since the war."

Quentyn smiled. "I know, Ser Daemon," he replied. "I have fought with many of them myself, and trained them all with you by my side."

"You trained me the best, though," Daemon laughed.

"Oh, we shall see," Quentyn said with a smile. "Ser Daemon, Ser Edwin. Show me your skills."

On and on through the day they fought. Quentyn was never defeated, though he grew weary, and began taking slight blows to the plates on his limbs in the later fights. Finally, when it was nearing midafternoon, the prince called a halt to the training. "We are more than ready for anyone the Seven Kingdoms has to set against us," he said. "Now we must rest, to be fresh for the tournament tomorrow. Daemon, Edwin, Edric, you three return to the Holdfast and find yourselves a meal; I am going to go fly with Darkfyre for a spell." He stripped off his gauntlets and handed them to Ser Edric; he did not want to accidentally scratch anything with the claws at their tips. "Please have these returned to my room, as well."

"Yes, my prince," Daemon replied. The three knights climbed the ladder out of the pit, and ascended the stairs. Quentyn watched them go, leaning on his sword; he heard the sound of their horses galloping towards the King's Gate. When he was sure he was alone, Quentyn slid the tourney sword into his belt and climbed out of the fighting pit. He went to his horse and swung into the saddle, turning north and riding hard for the kingswood.

It took an hour for Quentyn to reach the trees of the forest; once in their shade, he slowed his horse to a walk, enjoying the solitude. The afternoon sun filtered down through the branches, dappling the forest floor with the green shadows of the leaves overhead. Quentyn inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring the clean scent of the wood.

Quentyn rode deep into the kingswood, meandering before he sought his dragon. He was so engrossed in the beauty around him that he did not hear the soft sound of another horse coming up behind him. "Hello again, Quentyn Wildfire," a musical voice called out.

Quentyn whirled his horse around; behind him, on a white palfrey, rode Katarina Stark. Quentyn's breath went out of him. "H-hello, my lady. Katarina. Lady Katarina," he stammered. She laughed, shaking her head. "Just Kat," she said with a wink. "None of this 'my lady' business anymore; there's no need to be so formal." She laughed again, the sound a song in his ears.

Quentyn chuckled himself, feeling his cheeks grow red. _She makes me so nervous_, he thought.

Katarina spurred her horse forward, coming up alongside him and asking, "Will you ride with me a ways? The city became too cloying for me; I needed some fresh air and forestry, instead of city walls and smoke. I'm sure you can relate, and I would enjoy your company."

Quentyn found his voice. "I can indeed; I would be honored to accompany you." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, causing his heart to skip another beat.

They turned their horses and continued deeper into the kingswood. "You are armored," she noticed, nodding at the plate he still wore. "Yes," Quentyn replied. "I was training in the fighting pit with my knights, to prepare for the tournament tomorrow." Katarina chuckled. "My brothers were doing the same today," she said, shaking her head. "Both of them are hoping to face you or one of your knights; it is said the Black Dragons are unmatched on the battlefield, and that you yourself are the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. They want to test themselves against you, and bring honor back to the North."

Quentyn blushed again. "My men are very well trained," he said, "but I do not know that I am the best in Westeros."

"We shall find out tomorrow," Katarina said with a wink.

They were traveling in a wide arc, bringing them back southeast, towards the city. "I love this forest," Katarina said, looking about. "It's much greener than the forests of the North. And, blessedly, there are no crowds."

"Thank the gods for that," Quentyn replied. "Cities are such distasteful places; so crowded, so dirty, so loud. Give me a forest or my island any day."

"I agree wholeheartedly. That's one of the things I truly love about the North; it is sparsely populated, and solitude is but a short ride away for those who wish it. Although I must say, I prefer these southron forests; they are so green!"

"If you enjoy greenery, you would love Aegon's Garden on Dragonstone," Quentyn told her. "It is the only place on the island where trees grow, but it is truly beautiful." _But not as beautiful as you,_ he added to himself. "I would love to see it sometime," Katarina replied with a smile.

Before he could stop himself, Quentyn blurted, "We could go now, if you wish; Darkfyre can make the trip in but a few hours, and we could be back before moonrise." _Why did I say that?_ he thought desperately. But Katarina smiled again, and replied, "Sure, I would love to. Where is your dragon?"

As soon as she finished speaking, a roar shook the forest around them. "I think he heard us," Quentyn laughed as Darkfyre's massive head pushed through the foliage in front of them. The dragon snorted and turned his head towards them, sniffing the air. The horses, thankfully, stayed calm; Katarina's mount was from King's Landing, his from Dragonstone, and both had been around dragons often enough.

Quentyn jumped down from his horse; Katarina was already on the ground, approaching the dragon with a smile. "Hello, Darkfyre," she said, rubbing his neck. The dragon closed his eyes and lay his head on the needle-strewn floor of the forest. "He likes you," Quentyn told her. He had never seen Darkfyre take to another person so quickly; even Daemon had taken months to win the dragon over, and he was a Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. _She is incredible..._he thought.

"We should go, if we are to make it back before we are missed," Quentyn called to Katarina. She turned and followed him along the dragon's thick neck through the foliage, to where Darkfyre's massive body lay, in a clearing off the trail. The clearing was burnt bare of leaves and grasses, and there were charred bones scattered about; it was plain this had been the dragon's home for the last three days.

Quentyn climbed quickly up Darkfyre's leg to his back, reaching down to help Katarina as she followed. Her hand was small, and Quentyn couldn't help but notice how perfectly it fit in his. When they were both atop the dragon, he led her to the spot in front of Darkfyre's shoulders; he sat with her behind him, her arms wrapped around his chest. He liked the way that felt. _Remember your betrothal,_ he scolded himself, though there was no real venom in his thoughts; he was too busy enjoying Katarina's company to worry himself over Daenerys.

Once they were settled, Quentyn put his heels to the dragon's scales and shouted, "To Dragonstone! Make haste!" Darkfyre responded immediately, launching himself into the air and swiftly gaining altitude. Quentyn could feel Katarina clinging tight to him; the soft swell of her chest was pressed against his back. He felt his face grow red, and quickly tried to think of something else.

When they cleared the kingswood and flew out over Blackwater Bay, Katarina gasped. "It's so beautiful," she sighed into his ear. Quentyn agreed; the lowering sun cast an orange hue over the water, capping the waves in silver.

It took Darkfyre just under two hours to cross the bay. When Dragonstone came into view, the sun was setting behind it; as Darkfyre flew towards the island, the fortress was lined against the red sun, casting it in deep shadow. The view was stunning, and Katarina gasped again in awe.

Darkfyre circled downwards towards the castle, landing in the Stone Drum. The dragon crouched, and Quentyn swung himself to the familiar black stone of his own keep. He helped Katarina down from Darkfyre's back; once she was safely off, the dragon flew out of the keep, circling behind Windwyrm to his roost beneath the cavern's roof.

Katarina was studying the castle. "This is an aptly named fortress," she laughed. "Everything is made of dragons. I have never seen such craftsmanship; how was it done?"

"It was made by magic, before the Doom of Valyria," Quentyn told her as they began to walk. "The island of Dragonstone is no true island, but a volcano named Dragonmont. It is said my ancestors, a noble house of Old Valyria, used the heat of the mountain to melt the stone and reshape it into the form of dragons. There are tunnels under this keep that lead to the depths of the volcano; they are full of dragonglass, and are quite beautiful, in a primal sort of way. Perhaps I will show you one day."

"I would like that," Katarina replied, taking his arm and smiling.

A massive dragon tail arched over a walled courtyard in front of them. Two stout oaken doors were set into the wall. "That is the Dragon's Tail," Quentyn told Katarina, "and beneath it lies Aegon's Garden." He led her to the doors and pushed one open; they stepped through into a garden as green as any on the mainland. Trees grew around the walls; most were pine, and their sweet scent filled the air. Green grass grew thick in the black loam, making the ground springy. Wild roses grew in bunches in the soft soil, and in a wet patch of ground, a cranberry bush laden with berries stretched its limbs. The sun had set, and twilight reigned in the garden, lending it a magical beauty.

Quentyn and Katarina wandered through the rose bushes; Quentyn, on an impulse, plucked a full red rose from a bush and handed it to Katarina. "Thank you," she said, smelling it delicately. "I love roses; they are my favorite flower, and these are the most beautiful roses I have ever seen."

"They pale in comparison to you, Kat," Quentyn said without thinking. His mind tried to warn him off his path, but he did not care anymore; he was in his favorite place in the world with the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and he was drunk on the moment. _What comes will come; tonight, I am going to enjoy myself for once._

Katarina just smiled. "Your betrothed is quite beautiful," she told him.

_ Shit_. _The Others take whoever told her._

"She is my betrothed against my will," Quentyn said, frowning slightly. "My father insists I marry, but will not allow me to make my own choice of bride. I think he believes I will never come to a decision, that I am as heartless as the stones of my keep. He is wrong. Had he allowed me to make my own choice, I would be with your father, asking him if I may have the honor of asking for your hand."

Katarina paused mid-step and looked at him. "Why?" she asked, clearly nonplussed. "Your betrothed is of royal blood, beautiful, and a Targaryen besides. I am just Kat, a normal girl from the North. What's so special about me?" _Everything,_ he thought.

On an impulse, Quentyn took her hand in his, ignoring the warning bells in his head. _Aemond will be furious if he finds out about this,_ he thought, but he didn't care.

"You and I have more in common than anyone I've ever known in King's Landing," he told her, looking into her eyes as he did. "You are funny, you are kind, you are intelligent, and you are by far the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. If I were to spend the rest of my life with one person, I would want it to be you. In the three days I have been back in the capital, the only time I was ever truly happy was the time we spent together in the godswood...to be honest, that was the happiest time I have had in years."

Night had fallen; the sky above Dragonstone was cloudless and clear, and the sprawling vista of stars above them was reflected in the deep pools of her irises; Quentyn felt hypnotized. _I'm in love,_ he thought.

Katarina looked back at him for a moment, unblinking. Then, without warning, she slid her arms around his neck, pulled his head down gently, leaned up, and kissed him.

Her lips were soft as they pressed against his. Quentyn returned the kiss, his right hand finding the small of her back, his left cupping the side of her face as their kisses grew deeper. Her mouth opened slightly, the tips of their tongues touching briefly; he gently pulled her hips tighter to his, and she wound her fingers into his hair, keeping his mouth to hers.

After a minute, they broke the kiss; Katarina laid her head against his chest, her palms sliding to his shoulders. He returned her embrace, and they stood for a moment holding one another, the stars overhead blazing like diamonds in the ebony sky.

Quentyn's mind had stopped working; his heart had stopped beating. _If ever there was a way I could stop time, I would live forever in this moment._

Katarina lifter her eyes to meet his gaze; she smiled shyly at him, and butterflies erupted in his stomach. He softly stroked her cheek, tucking an errant strand of dark hair back in place behind her ear. She was radiant in the starlight. "I wish it was you I was betrothed to," Quentyn sighed quietly. Katarina nodded, kissing him once more. "So do I," she said, meeting his eyes again.

They stood like that for an endless moment. Quentyn lost himself in the depths of her eyes; in them, he saw a future he had never imagined for himself, a life spent with someone he truly cared for. He had always been a man of solitude, dark moods, and brooding, but when he was with her, he felt that all melt away.

Suddenly, a soft white light washed over the garden. Quentyn and Katarina looked, and saw a full moon rising over the walls of Aegon's Garden, bathing them in pearlescent radiance. The moonlight lit Katarina's face; she had never looked more beautiful to him.

Much as he wished they could spend the rest of time locked in that embrace, Quentyn knew they had overstayed their time on Dragonstone. "I must return you to your horse, before we are missed," Quentyn whispered, looking back at Katarina. She nodded, and this time he kissed her, his lips lightly brushing hers.

They left the garden, walking across the keep and around Windwyrm to Darkfyre's roost. When they entered the cavern, the dragon was lying down against the tower; Darkfyre raised his head as they entered, staring at them with scarlet eyes. Quentyn snapped his fingers, and the dragon responded as he was trained, crawling across the cavern and laying down, extending a hind leg to form a scaly ramp. Quentyn helped Katarina climb up the dragon's leg and back to their seat in the hollow of his neck. "Darkfyre, kingswood, make haste," Quentyn called, and the dragon threw himself into the air, the chill night wind whipping the riders' hair back. Darkfyre cleared the walls of Dragonstone and angled east over the bay, flying as fast as he could.

Quentyn felt Katarina shiver behind him. With one hand, he unclasped his cloak; he tuned back, wrapping it around her shoulders to shelter her from the cold. Katarina smiled, mouthing _Thank you; _when he turned forward again, she lay his cheek against his back. He felt her sigh slightly.

The moon was high in the sky when they finally reached the kingswood. Darkfyre settled back into his clearing with a snort; the horses, who had been grazing nearby, gave a start at the sight of the dragon, but did not bolt. Quentyn slid off the dragon and turned to help Katarina down. Together they walked to the horses.

Quentyn tethered his horse to a tree as Katarina led hers over by the bridle. "You will not be returning to the city tonight?" she asked him. Quentyn shook his head. "Often I would sleep with Darkfyre in his roost instead of in my bed on Dragonstone." Katarina looked worried. "But the tournament is tomorrow," she said, touching his cheek. "Will you get enough sleep?" Quentyn smiled and put his hand over hers. "Darkfyre makes quite the comfortable tent with his wing; the fire in his blood will keep me warm, and the forest floor is as soft as my mattress. I will arise early to get food before the fighting begins. Do not worry about me."

Katarina nodded. "Then I bid you a good night, Quentyn," she said softly. "You as well, Kat," Quentyn replied. "Thank you for tonight. You are the most amazing woman I have ever had the fortune of meeting."

Katarina smiled. "Thank you," she said. "You are quite amazing yourself."

Quentyn leaned down and kissed her; she kissed him back, leaning into him, playing with his hair. When the kiss ended, she smiled once more and swung into the saddle. "Here," she said, tossing him his cloak. "The night is much warmer on the mainland; besides, I do not believe it would be wise for me to be seen in your cloak." Quentyn shook his head, unable to speak. Katarina smiled one last time and trotted her horse through the trees, back towards the trail. The prince watched her go, missing her company already. _Seven save me, what am I going to do,_ he thought. He shook his head again and walked back to Darkfyre.

The dragon was laying down, his eyes closed, wings folded to his back. Quentyn took off his armor and pulled his tourney sword from his belt, wrapping both in his cloak to protect them from the elements. Once he was sure no water would get on the steel, he lay down next to Darkfyre, snuggling against the dragon's side, using the bundled cloak as a pillow. He reached up and tapped Darkfyre's scales; the dragon extended a wing over Quentyn, covering him like a tent.

The air immediately grew warmer, heated by the dragon's hot blood. The full moon shone through the translucent membrane of Darkfyre's wing, casting Quentyn in a deep purple hue. The prince felt more comfortable than he had in days.

Quentyn fell asleep that night dreaming of Katarina Stark.


End file.
